#paladins fics

[steviesummer]

inspired by and as a direct follow up to this post by @strangersteddierthings:

Eddie is horrified. He remembers the day Steve is referring to, though clearly not as well as Steve does. He calls out as Steve raced up the stairs and hears his door slam.

“Fuck.” He stares blankly at the wall in front of him. He can’t believe things went so bad so quickly. He’s been trying to get to know Steve better, get closer and damn if he didn’t just blow the hole thing. He’d shown up early, told Steve he needed to prepare as an excuse to spend some time with him. Despite everything that happened over spring break, Steve had remained guarded, standoffish no matter what Eddie tried. At least now he knew why. He’d fucked things up before he’d known there was something to fuck up.

He feels even worse about calling him a bully. Sure, Steve had looked the other way and even laughed at some of the mean jokes others had made, but he was far from the worst. That dubious award went to Billy Hargrove, but even without him, there was plenty of people who did far worse than Steve did. Especially because Steve is right. He did hit first, metaphorically at least. He can justify it all he wants as trying to protect himself, but that doesn’t make it right. Steve all but admitted that as he said the same thing. He feels nauseous at the realization that maybe he was just as bad as those he decried. That for all his talk about accepting outcasts and defying convention, he was just as prejudiced. Swallowing hard, he heads back to the dining room and looks at the clock. There is no way he is going to be able to run the campaign today. He’s not going to be able to focus or even play without thinking about how things might have been if he hadn’t driven Steve off all those years ago. He grabs the phone and dials Gareth’s number. “Emerson house, Sheryl speaking.” “Hi Mrs. Emerson, it’s Eddie.” Eddie is proud that he manages to keep his voice even. “Is Gareth there?” “Oh, yes! Let me go get him for you.” “Thanks Mrs. Emerson.” Eddie focuses on breathing while he waits. “Eddie? Hey man, what’s up?” Eddie breathes out. “Hey Gareth. Look, I know its last minute, but we’re gonna have to postpone Hellfire. Something came up.” He could hear Gareth’s frown through the phone. “Postpone? What happened, did Harrington do something?” As if he couldn’t feel worse. “Nah. I’ll explain later, but can you call Jeff and Frank, let them know? I gotta call the freshman, too.” “Alright, but I’m going to hold you to that.” “Fair enough. Talk to you tomorrow.” Eddie promises before hanging up. He weighs his options for how to tell the Party. Eventually, he decides on calling Mike, know that the younger teen won’t push too much. He’s dialing the Wheeler home before he can second guess his decision. “This is Mike.” Eddie feels a rush of gratitude that Mike is the one who answered, rather than Nancy or one of their parents. “Hey Mike, it’s Eddie. Listen, Steve’s not feeling great and having Hellfire here isn’t going to help. Can you call the rest of the Party, let them know we’re gonna move it to another day? I’ll keep an eye on Steve.” Eddie knows Mike is a confused, given how adamant he’s been in the past about not canceling or moving Hellfire, but as he expected, Mike accepts what he says at face value. “Sure. Need us to bring anything?” “Nah, I’ve got it. Pretty sure he just needs some peace and quiet so he can rest. But thanks.” They say their goodbyes and Eddie puts the phone back on the hook.  With that done, he checks that the door is locked and faces the stairs. Now for the hard part. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, if there is anything he can say that will fix this, but he has to try. Even if doesn’t change things between him and Steve, Steve deserves at least that much. Every step feels like it takes effort, chest heavy with guilt, but it only takes him a few moments to get to Steve’s door. It’s closed, which doesn’t surprise him. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts before knocking. Nothing. “Steve?” If it wasn’t for the quiet sound of Steve’s breathing he could hear through the door, Eddie would think he had left. He glad that he at least didn’t drive Steve out of his own home. He rests his forehead on the door. “I’m sorry.” Eddie hopes Steve can hear how much he means it. “You’re right, I fucked up. I made an assumption and took out my anger at other people on you. And that wasn’t fair and it’s not okay. But I want you to know that I’m sorry. Even if it wasn’t you, I shouldn’t have done that.” He lets out a hysterical laugh as he realizes - “And despite that, you still humor the kids when they talk about D&D and agreed to let us play here and didn’t punch me in the face, which makes you a better man than I.” He falls silent, listens as Steve’s breathing slows. He isn’t sure how long he stands there. He wonders how many other people he hurt this way, without even realizing. Knows he wants to do better, be better. He sighs, feeling his shoulders slump. “Anyway, I canceled Hellfire for today. I told everyone something came up, don’t worry about that. I’ll make up some story, make sure they know its not your fault. And uh,  let me know if you want to hang out again or something. I know I’ve been around a lot; didn’t realize that I was making you so uncomfortable, which is probably another thing I should apologize for. Anyway. Yeah. I’ll see you around, okay?” He waits a moment for an answer, but when none comes, he backs away from the door and walks downstairs to gather his stuff. It hurts, but he knows Steve deserves space and to be the one to initiate contact. He has some thinking to do, anyway.

[beaulesbian]

[glupshittostan]

this is actually how blind betrayal went down

[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. 

*********

Liked this fic? Check out my other work.

[paladin--strait]

12, 16 and 17 in the Christmas prompts with Jack Hughes, please [ maybe frenemies to lovers ooor brothers best friend?]

snowstorm - jack hughes

-

it was supposed to be a lowkey christmas weekend at luke’s family cabin in the mountains. just me, luke, his brothers jack and quinn, and no parents. honestly, i wasn’t all that excited. luke was my best friend, and quinn was cool, but jack? he was always the annoying middle brother. cocky, a bit of a know-it-all, and always ready to push my buttons. we didn’t exactly get along, and i wasn’t thrilled about being stuck in a cabin with him for a whole weekend.

“you sure about this?” luke had asked when i was packing. “jack can be a pain, but it’ll be fun. i swear, he’ll behave.”

“jack? behave?” i raised an eyebrow. “we’ll see.”

the first night wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t great either. we played cards, ate too much junk food, and made small talk. but jack kept making comments and teasing me for no reason, and i just couldn’t let it slide. quinn kept things light, trying to defuse the tension, but i could feel the electricity between me and jack. it was like there was this invisible line between us, and we both spent the whole night trying to see who could cross it first.

by the time we went to bed, the storm had really picked up. snow was coming down hard, and the wind sounded like it was going to blow the cabin away. i pulled the blanket over my head, trying to ignore the fact that i was stuck here for who knows how long and also trying to drown out the sound of jacks snoring.

the next morning, i woke up to the sound of the wind still howling outside along with the sound of jack and his own howling. i threw on a sweatshirt and grabbed a blanket, deciding to hang out by the fire. anything to avoid being trapped in a room with jack for too long. i didn’t want to deal with him today.

but of course, he had other plans.

“you’re up already?” jack’s voice cut through the quiet as he walked into the room. he was in a hoodie and sweatpants, looking way too comfortable for someone who’d just rolled out of bed.

“couldn’t sleep,” i muttered, not looking at him.

he flopped down next to me on the couch without asking. “yeah, well, we’re snowed in, so you’re stuck with us now.”

“lucky me,” i said dryly, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

“oh, come on,” he said, sounding amused. “don’t be like that. it’s christmas.”

i just shrugged. “yeah, it’s great.”

he looked over at me, smirking. “so, what’s your deal? you and me have known each other for years, but we still can’t talk without bickering. what’s up with that?”

i froze for a second. i wasn’t expecting him to actually ask. “we just don’t get along. that’s how it is.”

jack gave me a side-eye. “so you’re just gonna act like we’re not basically the same person? both of us are stubborn as hell.”

i narrowed my eyes at him. “i’m nothing like you.”

“oh really?” he shot back, his grin widening. “you sure about that?”

“yeah,” i said, crossing my arms, “i don’t go around making everyone else’s life harder for fun.”

jack raised an eyebrow. “you sure? because you’re doing a pretty good job of making my life harder.”

i didn’t have a good comeback to that, so i just looked away, staring out at the snow piling up outside. there was this weird quiet between us, a kind of unspoken thing that hung in the air. jack wasn’t pushing me anymore, but the tension was still there. it was always there.

after a while, quinn came in, presumably woken up by the sound of us arguing. he grins as he looked between us. “hey, don’t you two get enough of this when you’re home?”

“he started it,” i muttered, but quinn was already shaking his head.

“sure, sure,” quinn said, laughing. “you two should at least try to have one nice moment while we’re stuck here.”

jack leaned back against the couch, stretching out like he owned the place. “fine. i’ll be nice.” he gave me an exaggerated grin. “but don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

i rolled my eyes but didn’t argue. we sat there, the fire crackling, the storm still raging outside. it was awkward, but the silence felt… different now. it wasn’t tense in the same way. i found myself glancing at jack more than once, but every time i did, he was looking at the fire, almost like he was waiting for me to speak.

the storm finally slowed down later in the afternoon, and the snow seemed to settle, leaving everything outside completely still. jack stood up, stretching his arms.

“snow angels,” he said, a mischievous look in his eyes.

“what?” i ask, looking at him confused.

“snow angels,” jack repeated. “you know, the thing you do when there’s a ton of snow and you’ve got nothing else to do.”

“really?” i said, raising an eyebrow as i stand up. “that’s what you’ve got?”

“yep,” he said, grinning. “come on, it’ll be fun. or are you too cool for it?” he pushes my shoulder softly, not in a mean way, but a playful way.

i roll my eyes, stumbling a little. “i’m not too cool for it. i just think it’s kind of dumb.”

“you’re scared,” he teases, a challenge in his voice.

“I’m not scared,” i shot back, walking up to him with my arms crossed. “but i am going to make the best angel out there.”

jack smirked. “we’ll see about that.”

we went outside after putting on our jackets, the cold still biting at our skin. but the world around us was gorgeous. everything was covered in snow, untouched and perfect. i could feel the quiet all around us, almost like the world had paused for a moment.

jack dropped to the ground first, sprawling out dramatically to make his snow angel. i couldn’t help but laugh at how over-the-top he was being. he looked at me, eyes shining with amusement. “you sure you can beat this?”

i dropped to the ground beside him, spreading my arms and legs out to make my own snow angel. the snow was soft, and it felt oddly peaceful lying there. i could hear jack laughing beside me, but for once, it wasn’t that annoying, teasing laugh. it was genuine.

when we finally sat up, both of us covered in snow, jack gave me a surprised look. “huh. you actually made a good one.”

“thanks,” i said, brushing snow off my arms. “yours is okay too, i guess.”

we walked back to the cabin together, still a little cold, but something had changed. the tension between us had cracked a little. maybe it was the snow, or maybe it was just finally getting out of that stupid cycle of arguing. either way, i didn’t mind it as much.

as we walk closer to the cabin, jack nudged me with his shoulder as we stepped inside. “so, next time, snowball fight?” he smiles, this time it's genuine and makes my heart do a little flip.

i laugh, shaking my head. “we’ll see about that.”

and for the first time in a long time, i meant it. something had shifted between us, and i wasn’t exactly sure what it was yet. but i knew one thing, maybe, just maybe, jack wasn’t as annoying as i thought he was.

[viveela]

The Princess has been kidnapped!

Drew this for a fic I've been tryna make for ages, it's finally seeing the light

[autisticlancemcclain]

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing.”

Vaguely, Lance registers that he’s far too loud, that his dead-of-night shout has people peeking out their doors, rubbing groggy eyes. He knows he should tone it down and handle this gracefully and he meant to, thought about it in the hour or so he spent crouched but his door, waiting, straining his ears for the sound of Keith’s silent footsteps, convinced something would go down tonight.

Correct.

Keith jumps, duffel bag slipping off his shoulder and thumping as it hits the floor. He whirls around to meet Lance’s eyes and the shock melts quickly into stubbornness, into something defensive and irritated.

“Go back to bed, Lance,” he says evenly, and Lance envisions punching him. Lance envisions gripping the sleeve of his jacket and holding him in place. Both visions fight for standing ground in his mind, blurring into each other. His fists curl at his sides and he has to hold himself back, physically, root himself in place.

He thinks about saying, I know you’re afraid.

He thinks about saying, you will always have a place here.

He thinks about saying, please don’t leave me.

He says, “You’re running,” and it comes out sharp and accusatory, and there is a hiss from somewhere beside them, quick inhale through the teeth, but the world feels narrow, blurry around the edges, and Keith is the only one in focus, the only one Lance can see.

Keith’s face drops into something menacing, something as flat as it is furious, something familiar and almost comforting.

“Coward,” Lance spits before he can say anything. The cruelty of the words leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and he relishes in it, sucking it off his teeth.

He watches as Keith’s shoulders shift, an aborted lunge, as his chest inhales and exhales with a measured and practice breath. Watches as he calms himself, visibly, yanks himself back from the edge. Lance prepares to yank him right the hell back.

(Anything to keep him from going. To distract him, enrage him, occupy him.)

(Anything to make him stay.)

“You don’t know a goddamn thing about me,” Keith says, angry and short, less fiery than Lance expected, more controlled than he’s ever seen.

Lance panics. Keith tears his eyes away and bends down, wrapping his hand around the forgotten duffel bag strap, swinging it back over his shoulder. He turns and walks — stomps — away, heading down the hall, towards the hangars. Leaving.

Lance loses control of his mouth. A sound fights its way out of his throat, something croaking and furious and desperate, and like a cork shooting off a champagne bottle there is nothing he can do to stop what comes next.

“Your voice cracks when you lie.”

The anger has practically fled from his voice. In its place is pleading, begging, vulnerable. He chokes it back and tries to swallow and it does nothing, it bubbles out of him, spilling down his face and dripping onto the floor and soaking his bare feet, the ankles of his silk pajama pants. It comes all the way back up to his neck and chokes him, instead.

Keith freezes.

The champagne keeps bubbling.

“You — duck your head when you smile. And when you’re confident you snap your fingers on your left hand. When you read you mouth along to the words, except when you get really into a book, which is always, and then you stop. You always end up hiccuping after you eat because you fucking — hoover them back, you animal.“

Lance sniffles. The lump in his throat gets harder and harder to speak around, but the urge didn’t go away, the intense need to spill his guts, to slice himself open and spill at the ground by Keith’s feet.

Stay. Stay. Stay.

“You’re not as elusive as you think, you fucker.”

He forces himself to stop, then, bites his tongue until he tastes blood, until the words stop flowing. He inhales big and long and holds it, lets the air go stale in his lungs, lets his heart start to pound.

“I want to go,” Keith says, back still turned.

His voice cracks on ‘want’.

Lance gasps an exhale. “You’re a fucking liar.”

Keith’s turn is slow, and Lance can’t help but think it’s on purpose. To torture him, to test him. To say I don’t believe you. To say when I turn back you’re going to break character.

It’s heartbreaking, a little. And the heartbreak is written all over Lance’s face, and he watches as Keith sees it.

“You saw the problem first,” Keith argues, weakly. Lance hears what he doesn’t say: I’m leaving or else you’ll have to.

And Lance knows he was the one to go to Keith with his pinky finger extended and wide worried eyes. He knows he was the one who planted the idea of leaving in Keith’s head, never meaning for him to be the one to go but expecting him to try anyway. He knows he’s the one who’s standing here, in the middle of the hallway, arguing around the subject, half-conscious of his friends’ stares, their acknowledgment that more is being said than just their words.

And Lance shoves that all back, and says: “I told you I’d be your Red.”

Paladin. Your Red Paladin. But the words don’t come all the way out.

Keith swallows. “I know.”

“I won’t be anyone else’s.”

“…I know.”

Lance’s hands shake. “So you can’t leave me, you motherfucker.”

The duffel drops to the floor again. This time it’s intentional. This time it’s shoved off Keith’s shoulders.

He takes three great strides forward, grasping Lance’s face in his perpetually burning hands, and shoves their lips together, bruising.

“If I leave then the math checks out,” he whispers, pulling back, eyes closed, breathing heavy. His forehead is pressed to Lance’s like he can beam his thoughts into his brain.

Lance sighs. “If you leave I’ll follow.” His eyes flutter shut. “You goddamn suck at math.”

Keith snorts. “A little.”

“Stop trying to fix my problems without me.”

“It’s — I want to. Fix your problems.”

“I want you here.”

“…Okay.”

“Promise me, Keith.”

“Okay,” Keith says again, quieter. “I’ll stay, Red.” He kisses Lance again and this time it’s soft, loving instead of desperate. “I’ll stay.”

———

animatic by @jiveyuncle

[phaedrinthefaire]

I saw a post recently about what could’ve happened to Arabella post-game, but what I need to know is what happened to Yenna.

tldr Larian tell me what happened to my girl wait nvm ik what’s canon to me

Did she stay safe in the Elfsong during the Netherbrain’s attack? How did she feel when all of her heroes left the inn one last time? Whose care did they leave her in?

And then once the dust settles and the fractured remains of the party come back to celebrate, what then?

Maybe after weeks of her helping in the kitchen, the Elfsong’s chef finally begrudgingly admits he’s impressed and takes her on as an apprentice, and she becomes Baldur’s Gate’s finest. She grows up as the gate grows back.

Maybe Rion meets her in the midst of celebration and sees a companion for Fig in her, and asks if she wants a quieter place to sleep. Elerrathin’s Home finds a new balance as she settles in. Slowly, she has a family again. A home.

The companions might have something in mind for her. In awe of Tav’s magic, she could admit she wants to learn, and Gale enrolls her in the finest wizarding classes in Waterdeep. Shadowheart decides a little extra help on the farm wouldn’t hurt. (Dad)Astarion, longing for rest, suggests quietly that she can come with him, just for a while. If she wants! That on the road they might find a little peace, if not a little adventure too. (In my hc he’d only be brave enough to suggest it if he’s with Tav but I digress.)

Maybe her path only crosses with the companions again once she’s a little older. Minsc meets her in the city and recruits her good heart in his quest to change the Guild. Wyll and Karlach or Lae’zel return to the gate and find she’s become a young adventurer, a Baldurian through and through.

My favorite of her potential fates ironically is what’s most likely to be canon—Halsin sees her after their celebrations. She’s so tired. Their fellowship is breaking, and so is her something of a family. He knows the exhaustion hovering over fear in her eyes all too well. He wants to see light in them again.

So he takes her with him. Back in nature, she learns how to be a child again.

Brb going to go cry over Yenna. I love that little girl.

(I know we’re not getting a BG4 from Larian at least, but imagine a little sequel where you play as Yenna a few years later. Or any of the kids—Mol, Arabella, Fig. That would be so special.)

[gobald]

Part of some Dansecock goodies I'm sketching that I'll probably finish on the weekend. Why can't I stop thinking about them? And why haven't I found any Dansecock fics in here? TT^TT

[torveiglyart]

He has arrived. Like the prophecy foretold~

aka me living up to my last post.

As much as I love Black Paladin Lance, I think it only would have worked after the whole Lotor thing. Back in season 3, Lance respected Keith as their leader and vice versa, but, had the roles been reversed, I think there would have been a struggle on both sides. Keith would have a hard time respecting Lance as an authoritative figure, and Lance would struggle listening to Keith and not always lead with the team's needs in mind. Lance was kind of Keith's impulse control in the new set up, whereas a RP Keith and BP Lance would create a power imbalance. Keith respects Lance as an equal, and Lance respects Keith as authority. When Keith leaves, however, the dynamic shifts.

Lance respects Shiro as his hero and leader, but Shiro consistently does not acknowledge Lance as his right hand, and by extension, his equal. Lance is pushed aside again and again, but everyone else listens to Shiro so there's not much he can do. When Keith comes back, there's a new relationship between the two.

Lance appreciates Keith's insight and decisions more after the lack of acknowledgment from Shiro, and Keith is more accepting of authoritative figures telling him what to do thanks to the BoM. It's at this point where a BP Lance would work out. How it would get to a lion switch again, I have no clue, but I do think a changing of the guards part 2 would be a good way to show Lance's character development instead of *sighs* garfle warfle snik and allurance.

Honestly I think allurance should have happened sooner and then like a whole 'soul searching filler' episode where they break up on good terms. It's too often we find permanent or sad endings with media relationships. It would have been nice to see a "hey maybe this doesn't work. Friends?" from Lance and Allura.

Okay, another unrelated thing (sorry). Can someone please tell me the real reason Keith voted Lance in GWSnik? 'Cause "I don't want to spend an eternity with you" is sooooo not a legit answer. He should have voted himself if that were the reason. Is it because he felt bad for Lance? He didn't want him getting called dumb for an eternity? He didn't think anyone else would vote him? Does he actually think Lance was the best person to carry Voltron? Or is he just a sad gay in space?

I guess you can answer in the comments or a reblog but, yeah! Those are my thoughts on Black Paladin Lance! Thanks!

[teeentyonepilots]

and at the end of the paladin strait mv, as Clancy and Nico face off, a boy with bright blue hair and mocha eyes stands up.

[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

[justaz]

lance who has always hidden his insecurities under grandeur and humor. a huge ego paired with an inflated sense of pride. he is someone who is confident and cocky, but he exaggerates it in response to the deep rooted belief that he is not enough, that he is ordinary at best, lackluster at worst. he grew up as the baby in a huge family which came with a lot of coddling, yes, but his achievements had been made time and time again which made them expectations rather than milestones. the first time he truly shone was when he got into the garrison, something no one in his family had done before, something to be celebrated. he worked his ass off at the garrison to be top of his class, to be a fighter pilot, to reach the stars - to be the first of his family to reach space. who could too that? no matter how long he spent studying or training, he still tested into the cargo pilot class. it wasn’t the worst but it wasn’t what he wanted. he fell short by a measly three points. it was infuriating.

lance worked his ass off even more. he wanted to be something, he wanted to be noticed, he wanted to be praised, he wanted to be celebrated. he never made it. there was one student that caught his eye though - keith kogane. a living, breathing legend. he tested at the top of their class. miles above the other students. completely untouchable. despite his reputation, his grand achievements, keith never cared. he was never in the library studying or spending his free time on the flight sims. he rarely made it to class on time. he didn’t care. yet he was the best of the best. iverson gave him a hard time but it was clear to everyone that even iverson admired him and his skill, his talent. even lance admired him. he wanted to be like him, he wanted to be him. he was rejoiced, he was celebrated, he was praised, he was admired and he didn’t even try. lance pushed harder and harder but only ended in burning himself out. he crumbled under the pressure while keith didn’t seem to notice it. lance loved him but also hated him. then he was gone. and lance was a fighter pilot. barely.

iverson, now with one less eye, loathed that. he gave lance scorn and belittlement, compared him to keith at every turn and went on and on about his failings, about how he’d never be keith, about how he didn’t deserve keith’s space in the class. lance hated iverson, lance hated keith, lance hated himself. he just had to try harder. he was more deserving of all of it than keith. he never cared, he didn’t want what he was blessed with. lance fought tooth and nail for it. he deserved it. he rose a bit in the fighter pilot class and kept fighting, iverson kept ridiculing and humiliating, keith’s name remained at the top of the boards. as the year passed, his name overtook name after name until he was below keith, three points behind. almost, almost, almost, almost…

then they were in space. kidnapped by giant, sentient, mechalions. fighting in an intergalactic war. unable to return home. the years of resentment lance held for keith came to surface in close quarters with the man and he relished in every challenge that he won and despised every challenge he lost. he worked his ass off to get better until he could rechallenge keith until he won. he wasn’t sure when their rivalry became tinged with friendship, but he didn’t hate it. he should’ve, but he didn’t. it was keith’s disregard for his own amazement that infuriated lance. he was gifted and never cared for it. he was everything lance wanted and it was like it meant nothing to him. like he would trade it all at the drop of a hat if he could. yet, keith was fun, in an odd way. awkward and funny, a little prickly around the edges but a soft, gooey marshmallow heart under it all. lance knew it. he saw keith tear up at a couple of cute babies of some species on some planet as they played.

then shiro went missing and keith was forced into the role of leader and he very clearly did not want it. again, lance felt a flicker of annoyance. the role of black paladin, the pilot of the black lion, that was something lance had wanted. not at the expense of shiro, not at the expense of anyone, but he could be leader. he could lead the paladins of voltron in the fight against the galran empire. he could be revered on every planet they freed from tyranny, his name would live on forever. no one would overshadow him. yet, now keith stood in the shadow of the black lion, his face pinched and his eyes dark. he had lost his brother twice now and was being forced into leadership, he was now the one to make all the decisions for the team of (mostly) teenagers against the empire that had terrorized the universe for over ten thousand years.

lance stomped on the flicker of annoyance and put it out as he strode forward and stood beside keith. he spoke lowly, gently. he wasn’t sure how, but the right words spilled forth. keith’s shoulders relaxed and his scowl eased to a faint frown. he stepped into his role as leader. he was still as impatient and impulsive, he was quick to anger and often blinded by it. lance was there for it all. he held keith back, became his patience and impulse control. he quelled his anger when he could and talked sense into him when keith was already fired up. in return, keith gave him trust and gave him power. to outsiders, it seemed like it always had since the birth of voltron - the black paladin, the leader, and the red paladin, the right hand. but in all actuality, it was more the black and red paladins, leaders of voltron. the final decision rested with keith, but he never made a choice without lance’s input. lance made the plans and keith approved of them. lance talked at the diplomatic meetings while keith put on a brave face and played nice for a few hours.

then shiro came back and keith stepped down. lance felt as if he had finally found his footing. lance and keith, leaders of voltron, best friends. and now keith was leaving. lance watched keith walk away as he supported hunk and his tears. lance retreated to his own room and found traces of keith in every nook and cranny. hell, the damn castle ship could be traced back to keith in lance’s mind. ever since he stepped foot in the garrison, everything was tied to keith - the school legend, top of the class, best fighter pilot in their generation, the crazy man breaking into a government facility to kidnap legend takashi shirogane, the conspiracy theorist with the odd sounds in the desert, finding the blue lion, ending up in space fighting a war, red paladin of voltron. it was all keith. yet he wasn’t here. lance loved him, but he also hated him. he wasn’t sure how many more times he’d end up feeling that same sentiment.

the team…drifted. hunk and pidge paired off while allura and shiro paired off leaving lance and coran. coran was a nice, funny, odd man that reminded lance of his father back home. coran’s crazy, kooky exterior melted away when it was just them two and lance felt the same happen with him. coran talked of altea before it all, his husband and their son. lance talked of home too, every detail he could remember from earth and his family. lance busied himself with training or helping coran around the castle. he tried with the rest of the team, but things were pretty tense and his loud, jovial nature wasn’t exactly welcome all things considered. he tried to be shiro’s second as he had been keith’s. he offered his input and his plans but they were tossed aside without a moments thought. he was belittled for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong when he tried to speak up at their meetings. he was not shiro’s second, he was keith’s piss poor replacement as he had been at the garrison. he quieted and kept to himself. he stuck to the walls with crossed arms or locked himself on the training deck for hours at a time. shiro was off, a but different but lance couldn’t put his finger on it. the way he looked at them all sometimes was eerie. his eyes were empty and void and unsettling. after being shouted at on the bridge during a meeting,

he really couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself. he thought getting it out in the open would ease the worry off his shoulders and, if it didn’t, then whoever he spoke to could laugh off his worries to properly ease his mind, help him see sense. lance told coran. coran did not laugh. he did not brush off lance’s worries. he all but confirmed them. he said how he had found shiro’s behavior odd and the shouting really sent the point home. shiro before had never yelled, not like that (bar slav but that was understandable). the rest of the team also sought lance out to share their same opinions. lance took it all in stride despite the heavy dread settling over his shoulders. in agreement, the team trailed down to the bay and sat in front of the black lion. instead of the slow, patient meditation where they would ascend into the astral plane, it felt more like they were snatched and hauled up into it. they found shiro there, the real shiro, the dead shiro. they weren’t sure who was on the ship, but it wasn’t their leader. they all remained in the astral plane as they talked over a plan.

lotor considered their line of questioning and shared the witch’s experiments while he was there and gathered that if shiro was anything, he was most likely a clone. there were other options such as shapeshifter or droid disguised as shiro but both were easily disproven as if shiro were a shapeshifter, there would’ve been moments when he tripped up and either didn’t remember something or acted too different from the shiro they knew. if shiro were a droid disguised as shiro, well…their capabilities of such a thing were lacking. the droids the galran empire had were only good for fighting and even then they were pretty lackluster. the witch had an odd fascination with life and death so the chances of shiro being one of her experiments at recreating life were incredibly high.

lance didn’t trust lotor either but he knew they needed all the aid they could get so he bit his tongue and allowed lotor to remain in close cohorts with all of them. they staged a coup and overpowered the shiro on the ship. unable to kill him, they froze him in a pod and kept him locked in the floor of the infirmary. with the loss of her spy, haggar launched an attack on voltron. tens of hundreds of galran ships warped to their position but their appearance was quickly followed by hundreds of thousands of rebel ships and military ships from those in the coalition. the blade managed to send a few ships, though at lance’s poking and prodding, kolivan relayed that keith wouldn’t be there as he hd been out of a mission for the past couple of weeks and hadn’t returned yet. heavier dread settled over lance but he had no choice then to ignore it and fight with the rest of his team against the galran attack.

with a great sense of deja vu, lance found himself locked out of the red lion. he groaned and complained to him as they didn’t have time for this but red didn’t budge. lance spoke to coran through his comms that red wouldn’t let him in and the older man appeared in the bay at frightening speed. they talked it over and red allowed coran to enter and pilot him. as coran stepped into red’s maw, black let out an ear-shattering roar. the deja vu was never ending as lance found himself rushing toward black and taking a seat at the helm. the castle ship was put on autopilot, it kept its shield up as it fired at passing galran ships whilst the rest of the team flew around in their lions taking on ship after ship. as rebel and coalition ships began to fall, the team formed voltron and took out the ships with ease.

it was odd, finally being in charge. finally being recognized. being turned to for guidance with unwavering trust. it was something he had always dreamed of, something he envied keith for, something he truly didn’t want when he finally got it. how could they look to him? how could black choose him? he was just a boy from cuba, one out of a family of seven, twelve counting his sister in law, niece and nephew, and grandma and grandpa. he was a cargo pilot who had no business being in the fighter pilot class. he became a paladin by sheer luck, luck attributed to keith kogane. even now, as black paladin, he only received that position because shiro was out of commission and keith was on a mission for the blade. the moment keith returned, the lion would return to keith and lance would go back to being his second, ignored at best, yelled at at worst. as of now, he was keith’s stand in. he just had to make it until keith returned. problems arose practically ever minute and lance tried to imagine keith and how he would respond before making a decision. he’d stand still as he took in the information, pointer finger and thumb brushing together as he thought it over, and finally respond.

he checked practically every minute of every day for a response from keith or a change in status from kolivan, but neither ever came. keith was still on a mission. he had been for weeks. lance stood on shaky legs as he led the team. he hesitated and was indecisive. he froze up when they turned to him to make a decision. he was not a leader. he wasn’t who they were looking for. they needed keith. he needed keith. lance would spend his time in the bridge, a line ringing endlessly in hopes of keith finally picking up, as he looked over the battle plans and made tweaks and adjustments as he saw fit. allura joined him once and merely watched as he worked. she chuckled to herself suddenly and mentioned how with the clone as their leader, she had forgotten what it was like with keith as their leader. she had forgotten that lance was once their strategist, that he had been part of the duo that made all the decisions for the team.

coran also joined him after allura left. he let lance ramble aloud about the plans until he ran into an issue he couldn’t resolve quite yet. he stood still as he rubbed his thumb and pointer finger together. coran smiled and exhaled sharply. he said softly how he had not seen lance “like this” in quite some time. at lance’s questioning look, coran explained how lance had been so confident and sure of himself when he led with keith. under the clone’s leadership, lance had been shaken and wasn’t sure of himself anymore. the lance of the past few months was quiet and hesitant, unsure and unsteady, whilst the lance who led with keith was confident and self-assured. he made these decisions for the team and didn’t second guess himself once. yes, he thought over his plans from every angle to ensure the team was as safe as could be, but he never doubted himself. coran supposed it was keith’s unwavering faith, loyalty, and trust in lance. keith followed lance’s decisions just as much as the team followed keith’s.

lance watched coran leave after ruffling his hair and slowly turned back to the messy draft of a battle plan. lance’s gaze shifted over to his stilled hand where he had been rubbing his thumb and pointer together since running into the issue. he had been doing the same motion since becoming black paladin. it was oddly familiar. he swore he had seen…keith do it. it was keith’s unique tick that he did when stressed or emotional and trying to compose himself. lance had stolen it. allura and coran’s words echoed in his mind as he thought back to the short period of time with keith as black paladin. lance had felt like he finally found his footing there. he felt seen and heard and appreciated as he and keith led the team together. keith’s trust in his decisions, lance’s ability to match each of keith’s weaknesses to balance the team. here lance was now, leading the team all on his own, and he felt his own weaknesses exposed to the elements at the loss of his samurai.

well, the whole time he had been thinking what would keith do. he had been leading like he still had keith. perhaps that was the problem. he was leading like half of a whole rather than black paladin. lance looked up at the trilling line on the screen of the bridge. keith was on a mission. he was not on the ship. it was lance and his team. lance reached up and ended the ringing line. he had to lead like it. lance watched lotor closely for days but still couldn’t find any issue with him. weeks passed and things sailed smoother than before. lance still froze up in meetings and hesitated before making big decisions, but he stopped looking to his side for keith’s input. just as they fell into the new normal, keith returned. he flew into the castleship with a teleporting black and blue wolf, a tall galran woman that looked suspiciously like him, and (most peculiar) an altean. as well as a growth spurt that came with bulging muscles. not that that was important. what was important was that keith finally gave lance the reason why lotor was so hard to trust.

in the hours waiting for lotor and allura to return, lance lead keith to the infirmary to see the still clone body and retold everything that had happened while he was gone. keith’s face cycled through a few emotions but he quickly forced them back behind a mask of indifference and he nodded. the two of the returned to the bridge to wait for lotor to return to confront him. allura was heartbroken and enraged at the news and had taken to fighting lotor herself. outnumbered and surrounded, lotor surrendered and allowed himself to be taken to the dungeons of the castle. it was unnerving that the castle had dungeons and lance never knew despite his wanderings over the years, but he let it go. lotor was taken into the belly of the castle in chains while keith mourned his brother once more. maybe it was the news of her people that had survived only to be farmed for experiments that gave her the idea, but allura thought of a way to bring shiro, their shiro, back.

the clone’s body was taken down to the bay where allura pressed her hands to the black lion. she began to glow and she walked toward the limp body and placed her hands to it’s chest and head. the light around her body flowed down her arms and hands and into the body on the table. after a few seconds, the body took a breath and cracked open it’s eyes. lively eyes. loving, kind, and caring eyes. shiro’s eyes. shiro was put back in the infirmary as he got used to being alive again. coran stepped back from the red lion and turned the mantle back over to lance without complaint. lance did the same with the black lion to keith. instead of it feeling bitter, lance felt more at peace. being a nobody was horrible, unbearable, but being the somebody that everyone turned to for help and guidance was not very fun either. he was content to be second in command, right hand man, three points behind keith. only, keith took back the black lion but didn’t let lance fall back into the shadows. they fell back into the same dynamic they had before, two halves of one whole, two leaders that complimented each other, that met one another’s weakness with their strengths, that balanced each other, that made a damn good team.

[paladin--strait]

hi!! thoughts on 2, 13, and 17 with jack or quinn hughes? i think it could be so cute first christmas together and snowed in

presents - quinn hughes

-

it’s christmas morning, and everything outside our little cabin is blanketed in thick, soft snow. the storm that started last night is still going strong, but inside, everything feels warm and peaceful. the fire crackles in the hearth, casting a golden glow across the room, and the scent of pine from the tree we picked out together fills the air. i’m curled up on the couch, a fluffy blanket wrapped around me, with quinn sitting beside me, his arm slung lazily around my shoulders as we sip hot cocoa.

“merry christmas,” i whisper, glancing up at him with a soft smile, feeling that familiar warmth spread through my chest. i’m still in my pajamas, my hair a little messy, and everything feels perfect.

“merry christmas, babe,” he says, his voice low and full of affection. he brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers warm against my skin. i can feel his smile even before he presses a soft kiss to the top of my head.

i close my eyes for a second, just taking in the moment. it’s our first christmas together, and the whole thing feels so new and exciting, but also comfortable, like we’ve been doing this for years. i’m so grateful we ended up here, snowed in, in this cozy cabin, far away from everything. just the two of us.

“you’re okay with this?” i ask, my voice a little hesitant as i glance over at him. i can’t help but wonder if he’s missing the usual christmas chaos. the big family gatherings, the loud music, all the usual traditions.

“are you kidding?” he laughs softly, pulling me closer. “this is perfect. i get to spend the whole day with you, no interruptions, no stress. just us and a mountain of blankets.”

“good,” i smile, feeling my heart flutter. “because i don’t want to go anywhere either. i’m happy just being here with you.”

“same here,” he says, his eyes soft as they meet mine. “this is all i need.”

we sit in comfortable silence for a while, sipping cocoa and watching the snow fall outside. the fire crackles, and the room is quiet except for the occasional sound of the wind howling outside, making the cabin feel even cozier. it’s the kind of stillness that makes everything feel perfect. i love the quiet moments with quinn, the ones where we don’t need to say much but somehow everything feels understood.

“let’s open presents,” he says after a while, his voice playful and excited. he stands up and stretches, his muscles tense after sitting for so long, and then he turns to me with that grin i adore.

“yes, please,” i say, sitting up a little straighter and feeling that familiar holiday excitement bubbling up inside of me.

quinn goes to the tree, where the presents are stacked neatly beneath the branches, and he hands me the first gift. it’s small, wrapped in shiny gold paper with a green ribbon, and i can tell by the shape that it’s something delicate. my heart races a little as i tear into it. when the paper falls away, i find a beautiful, handcrafted necklace. it's simple, with a small silver pendant in the shape of a star. it’s elegant, timeless, and as i hold it up to the light, i realize it’s the kind of piece i’d wear every day, a reminder of this quiet, perfect christmas.

“quinn, it’s beautiful,” i say softly, my fingers trembling as i take it in. “thank you.”

“i’m glad you like it,” he says, his voice warm. “i saw it and thought it would look amazing on you. like a little piece of the night sky.”

“it’s perfect,” i reply, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “i’ll never take it off.”

he grins, clearly pleased with himself. “well, don’t be surprised if i get you a whole collection of those necklaces now.”

i laugh, reaching for the next present, eager to see what’s inside. we take turns opening gifts, and as i watch him unwrap a new pair of gloves and a cozy sweater i picked out for him, i can’t help but feel this deep sense of happiness. it’s not about the presents, not really. it’s about this moment—the way we’ve settled into each other’s lives, how easy it feels to just be together.

after a few more gifts, we both settle back onto the couch, surrounded by crumpled wrapping paper and empty boxes. quinn pulls me close, and we sit there for a moment, just enjoying the warmth of each other’s presence. the fire crackles, the wind outside picks up, and we’re perfectly content, tucked away from the rest of the world.

“this is the best christmas,” i say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“yeah, it really is,” he agrees, his voice soft and full of affection. he kisses the top of my head and wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer. “i don’t think i could’ve asked for anything better.”

“me neither,” i whisper, leaning into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as he holds me. “i’m just glad it’s with you.”

“always with you,” he replies, his voice steady and full of certainty. “that’s all i want.”

the room is quiet again, just the sound of the fire and the soft hum of the wind outside. i close my eyes, content in his arms, and let the moment stretch on. i can’t remember ever feeling more at peace than i do right now. everything about today feels like a dream. a perfect, quiet dream that’s all mine.

“let’s stay here all day,” i murmur, my words slow and lazy as i let the warmth of the fire and his embrace lull me into a comfortable drowsiness.

“i don’t plan on going anywhere,” quinn says, his voice soft with a hint of a smile. he kisses my forehead and tightens his hold on me. “not today. just you and me. it's not like i could go anywhere anyway. there's too much much snow on the roads for me to drive.” he says, making me laugh a little.

and in that moment, i know that i wouldn’t want anything else. it’s not the gifts, or the snow, or even the perfect cabin. it’s just being with him. this is the best christmas, the kind i’ll remember for the rest of my life.

“merry christmas, quinn,” i whisper, feeling a rush of love fill me up.

“merry christmas, babe,” he replies, his voice full of warmth as he presses a kiss to my hair.

and we stay there, together, as the snow falls softly outside, wrapped in the love of this perfect day.

[vialism]

moodboard for @tylerssblurry's fic making my way towards you