☀💜♫ tremendously ♫💜☀

They about to have a jumping-on-the-bed party :]

I’m between episodes 77 and 78 (on Talks) of my re/watch of Vox Machina and uh. um. Scanlan is giving me ~vibes. You know,

I’m both looking forward and not looking forward to That Part™, but in the meantime lemme just… Draw the boy in a Hawaiian shirt and pink sunglasses and a sliiiightly unhinged look. Also drinking a sex on the beach* because come on.

(if I wasn’t as much of a coward/could actually draw things I’d’ve drawn him wearing Daisy Dukes, but there you go.)

Finished! Oh man, this took me… two months? Three? So long. But the idea wouldn’t let go, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

As I mentioned before I watched bits and pieces of the 1st campaign of Critical Role before going back to the beginning and watching/listening to seriously (I’m now starting episode 74!), but one thing that struck me was the character growth for all these characters?? So good. And these two… oh, these two. I started thinking I wanted them together any way, romantic or platonic (about… 6% of my ships are romantic?), but as time goes by I just love this ship, where it started and where it ends up in the epilogue. Plus… y’now, a couple of slightly bruised souls finding solace in each other 💜

Pour one out for the support classes 🍻 Goodness knows they need it, sometimes. It’s hard and emotionally taxing and sometimes you just have to take a moment post-battle to breathe and be exhausted together. (not that being a tank or a glass cannon isn’t hard and emotionally taxing, I just.. you know. Support your support classes!)

[Of course! Set in TLOVM, because Makin' My Way happened over the course of a few days - surely some stuff happened over that time, right? Didn't get to smoochies tho, sorry the vibes were not quite that.]

It’s… wait, he needs to count. 

Okay, it’s three days into their trek down the mountain. Scanlan’s feet hurt bad and his back hurts worse, because Pike was stabbed and like hell he’s letting her haul Grog’s scrawny ass around. Even puny like this, he’s still a goliath.

Unfortunately, without those big muscles, there isn’t really much warmth to be found when they dare not light a fire. Like tonight, when they spied some bandits parked on the road they finally found. Maybe they’ll just - dunno - use the river to make more progress tomorrow. 

Man. He’d really kill for Trinket right now. Bear stank, but at least he had one good use. 

Grog passed out within, probably, a few minutes of scarfing down what Pike was able to fish from the river. So it’s just the gnomes, now, against the dark, against the cold.

And - and maybe Scanlan’s a little delirious from hunger, because Grog ate half his serving before he could get to it, and it really should be repeated that it’s been a long fucking few days - 

But? Pike might be coming on to him?

He’d usually cut out the might, because let’s be real, Scanlan Shorthalt is irresistable, and when he is resistible a wink and a song usually get the girls and gents to change their tune. Pike is a whole other beast, though - beyond the fact she could squash him like a bug (wow), she plays him like a fiddle, somehow, and he gets tongue-tied in a decidedly unsexy way. So he really doesn’t blame her for not taking him seriously. Honestly!

So he really has no fucking clue why her hand is on his thigh, and she’s laughing at what he’s singing and listening to what he’s saying, and not the other way around. 

He’s had cause to thank the gods (the Everlight specifically, lately. No reason.) for his darkvision before. Lots of good cause, really, from sneaking out before dawn to - well. 

Scanlan’s pretty sure he mouths a prayer, because this can’t be real. She can’t be real, white hair blue with shadow and gold with moonlight and subtly the richest thing he’s ever seen. 

How are her eyes so fucking pretty? They’re grey. His are grey. No one writes ballads about grey eyes. He’d fix that, right now, except he can’t string words together in his head. He’s still talking, though, but no clue what he’s actually saying. 

Better shut up. He does. With a gulp. 

“C’mon, Scanlan,” Pike prompts. From beneath her lashes - fuck’s sake, that’s sinful. That has to be sinful, looking like that. And he knows sin. 

(He’s not a man his mother would be proud of.) 

Apparently he’s gone catatonic, because Pike nudges him. “The rest of the story? The boat, and the fleece? What happens next?”

He has no fucking clue. Scanlan swallows. “I - let’s head to bed,” he says. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” Pike replies, not looking the least bit tired. “Let’s.”

And she doesn’t move.

Or she does, but it’s not away, to curl up under one of Grog’s arms, as far from his armpit and as close to his body heat as she can manage. 

It’s into him. 

Silver is too weak a word, platinum to cheap, for what he sees in her eyes. 

“Scanlan,” she says.

He gulps. Really appropriate comedic timing. “Yeah?”

“What happens next?”

Maybe, now - just maybe - he can… they can… scratch that might? He’s reading this right - right?

So he gives it a shot: he leans in.

Pike rests her forehead against his and his stupid little heart might give out there. 

And then.

She fucking.

Winks. 

“You want me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Scanlan sputters. “I - Pike - you -”

“Oh, I don’t mind.” She grins, cheeky little - “It’s a good look on you.”

He reads something he shouldn’t, then. That earnest devotion she has in prayer, and how she shutters herself off from talking about it too much around their party of godless friends. And Vax, now, especially, and whatever the fuck he has going on. A fire blazing, banked low.

Yeah. He gets scared. 

“It’s late,” he repeats. And, because he can’t resist trying his shitty luck: “we might need to cuddle for warmth, though.”

Pike snuggles into his side. He definitely feels warmer, already. And she looks at him a little coyly, and he doesn’t need a fire anymore. “Can I be the big spoon?”

He feigns indignity. Which is, let’s be clear, really fucking hard around the huge grin he has.

*sighs* Why does Tumblr like to make images blurry? A mystery for the ages. Anyway, I love those three a normal amount. (hah.) This one’s still very TLOVM in style but I’ve been doodling a lot while listening to the streams so you can expect differently flavours in the future.

When you’re a low level cleric, you have so little slots to cast that it’s not wise to spend them unless you are in true dire straits. Knowing this, Pike started out by caring for Grog and her new friends in the most frugal yet attentive way she could afford at the time. She always made sure that everyone who needed a potion had one, she constantly prayed for their safety, she would clean and bandage cuts while they took their short rest, and she made sure to stay on top of everyone’s unique health needs.

Scanlan’s was a particular case she was not familiar with until their first major fight together. Without his voice, he could not cast his powerful magic and the little man was unskilled with a weapon other than his own bare hands. He really only carried a sword by the insistence of the group and avoided wielding it whenever he could. He was good at keeping his distance from the worst of the fray, but when his voice cracked and faded from constant use, he was next to useless. Even spell-casting through his instruments could not remedy the situation. He had an affinity for wind instruments, which would still irritate his throat. As a result, there were some days in which the often informal and brash gnome would stand apart from the team in a defeated silence, forced to rest his voice until they found somewhere to sleep for the night. 

So Pike took it upon herself to keep tea leaves in her component pouch just for him. Preparing, pouring and steeping tea turned out to be the most time consuming task among all the others in her short rest medical routine. But it was worth it for many reasons. Sure, she (alongside the entire team) knew just how important it was to have Scanlan backing them up. The effort was worth it just for his talent alone. But for Pike, there was also something about this process that brought her glee. Him being such an overacting buffoon most of the time, Pike would eventually learn what Scanlan’s genuine thankfulness looked like. With just his expressions to communicate and flirtatious eyebrow waggles only being tolerable for so long, Scanlan would ultimately take the tea from her hands; his eyes full of awe and a tinge of guilt— feeling undeserving of the trouble she went through just for him— but with a thankful smile in the end. “Is it good,” she would ask, and he would nod enthusiastically before taking another sip. What a sight to behold. Her first glimpse into the man under the mask. And she already liked what she saw. 

Almost each and every time, it was the same thing. She would brew without a second thought, he would take his unworthy stance, she would insist, and he would falter to her kindness. With each gulp of tea, he would throw his head back and let the warmth pool over the back of his throat before swallowing with a satisfied sigh. Pike would laugh. Too adorable for words, she often thought. Sometimes she would even join him in the silence and bask in his gentle gratitude whenever she accidentally [on purpose] made enough tea to spare a cup for herself.

Years after their adventuring slowed to a crawl so they could settle into married life, this tradition persisted. Pike could now fetch fresh tea leaves from the garden Wilhand had grown long ago for their sustenance. She would crisp and prepare them herself and head to the music room with two steeped and steaming cups. Every time she entered, Scanlan would immediately set down his instrument or book, no matter the circumstance. When he’d see the tray in her hands, they would exchange knowing looks, sit across from each other and sip their tea in absolute silence. “Is it good,” she would ask, and he would smile and nod.

Pike laughed one day and teased, “You know you can talk now, right?”

Scanlan returned a mirthful chuckle and whispered, “I like it this way…”