#lance sve

Okay sO lance immediately gives the player his schedule upon their first interaction, so naturally i thought it was a very important item and I memorized the whole thing.

I find lance’s time spent at the crimson badlands a place of interest.

So imagine lance’s heart event where lance’s love interest ( i think female farmer works splendidly) stays at the island adventurers guild (you know the one I’m talking about 😏) and in the middle of the night, lance has to warp to the castle village gate due to some emergency.

so lance is like, super tired, yeah? And he’s there, dealing with whatever shit summoned him / needs to be taken care of and all of the sudden, one of those freaky fallen adventurer monsters comes out and attacks him.

lance, in his extremely tired state of mind, only notices that *wait a minute, what the hell?? This guy kinda looks like my significant other???*

His reaction time is impeccable, of course. So the adventurer is dead within two seconds flat.

But it leaves lance with a chilling, harrowing sense of somberness at the prospect that his lover could have visited to check up on him and they would be dead in front of him nonetheless.

——

okay anyways Lance eventually makes his way back to the mine carts to get back to the guild, but after the traumatic experience, he’s mentally out of it — and he gets wounded very easily.

he makes it back and his partner is very worried about how he was caught so off guard. Like, lance is an incredible fighter so there’s got to be something deeply wrong for him to be so easily wounded like this. He’s not acting like himself.

Lance does not explain the event immediately, because he hasn’t even processed it for himself, but his partner notices how desperately clingy he is all the sudden and doesn’t press further. There can be spice here, but it’s not necessary.

——

a few days later, lance has a nightmare/ night terrors related to that event and wakes up multiple times in the night in a cold sweat. Upon seeing his lover’s growing unease, lance finally opens up about what happened, leaving his partner shocked at how he carried that burden for however long it had been since.

——

Edit: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85151536/chapters/224845541

I wrote it.

TL;DR what if lance killed a fallen adventurer that looked like his partner. If you don’t know what that monster looks like , here’s a photo from the SVE wiki

Ok anywho i dont know who will see this because idk how big lance’s fanclub is but if you see this lmk your thoughts. I might have a draft of this fic when i attempted writing it many two years or so ago.

The faint beat bleeding through your front door stopped him mid-step. Lance glanced toward the horizon. The sun was only just beginning to set. Maybe you’d finished early, he reasoned.

He lifted a hand to knock, then hesitated. Lately, the line between friendly affection and something far more personal had begun to blur in ways he refused to name. You two have been circling each other in ways that felt anything but casual. He found himself lingering longer than necessary, standing closer than propriety required, memorising the small, unguarded moments he told himself meant nothing.

They did. He just wasn’t ready to acknowledge it. 

Every shared look felt deliberate, every accidental brush of hands charged with intention, still, he held himself back. Whatever was growing between the two of you had been built carefully, only barely restrained by his own resolve, and admitting it aloud felt like a risk he wasn’t prepared to take. Shaking these thoughts aside, he knocked. Right now, all he wanted was to see you and for once, he can act a little selfish. 

When there was no answer, he frowned. This was highly unusual. Cautiously, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. For a moment, all he could do was stare. You were sprawled on your living room floor, halfway through a bottle of wine. Your jacket lay discarded nearby, the rest of your things scattered around you like the aftermath of a storm. You hummed to yourself, entirely oblivious. Whatever he expected to see, this wasn’t it.

“…Going somewhere?” 

You looked up, eyes widening. You were too preoccupied to even notice he let himself in. That bothered him more than it should have. 

“Lance?” you said, dragging out the syllable like you needed to taste it first. “You’re here.”

“I didn’t know I was expected at all,” he replied, walking further inside and shutting the door firmly behind him. His gaze flicked to the bottle again. Half-empty. There’s another one empty by the foot of the table. “What’s going on?”

He couldn’t stop watching you. At the faint flush in your cheeks, the way you clumsily stretched for the jukebox to lower the sound. 

“I got invited by some old friends to meet up in the city,” you explained as you pushed yourself upright, wobbling just a little before steadying yourself by the couch. “I was just thinking about you. Want to join me?” 

His jaw clenched before he could stop it. The city. Of course, of all places it had to be the one place he never quite felt comfortable no matter how many times he’s visited. He glanced at you again. “And you’re going like this?” he asked, sharper than he meant to be.

You frowned, suddenly feeling a little self conscious. “Like what?” You smoothed down your dress. 

He gestured helplessly. “You’ve been drinking.” Unsure of what to say without it sounding like a lecture. 

“So?” you shot back, defensive, shoulders squaring. “It’s just wine.” So maybe you were nervous and wanted a little pick-me-up. You can still stand up straight…with minimal effort. 

He exhaled slowly, forcing his tone down. “I’m not saying you’re not allowed. I’m saying—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “You’re not in a state to be traveling alone to the city.”

“You make it sound like I’m headed to the Badlands,” you joked, suddenly aware of how silly all this sounded—and how badly you wanted to ease the tension. “If you’re that worried, why don’t you come with me?” The words left your mouth before you could overthink them and you’re suddenly very aware you’ve asked the same question twice. Your fingers closed around the bottle on the carpet, and you tipped it back, finishing the last of it in one go. Courage, liquid or otherwise, burned its way down your throat. You were scared if he’ll push you away this time. Scared he won’t. 

The silence stretched on, thin and brittle, and you were just about to turn away—to laugh it off, to take the offer back—when gravity betrayed you. Your balance slipped, and you swayed just a little bit farther than intended. Lance’s hand shot out on instinct, gripping your arm to steady you. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Careful.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve without thinking, anchoring yourself. When you look up, he’s too close—close enough that your breath ghosts warm against his collar.

“Lance—”

“There’s no way I’m letting you go by yourself.”

His voice, gentle but absolute, so close to your ear sent shivers through you. You feel your heart climbing up your throat. You think you need another shot. 

Somehow, you managed to put on shoes, grab your wallet and keys, and get on the bus all without incident. Meanwhile, Lance had stayed close and has been patiently guiding you as you staggered by his side. “I still think you should have sobered up first,” he muttered.

“That defeats the whole purpose of pregaming,” you laughed. 

The club sits just on the outskirts of the city, barely an hour away. It’s nothing like the parties Lance remembers.

The space is smaller, tighter. Too loud. Music slammed through the floorboards, vibrating up his legs, settling uncomfortably in his chest. Laughter burst out near the dartboards, sharp and unrestrained. Drinks sloshed dangerously close to the edge of a sticky table where a group crowds together, shouting over the noise. And you…

You fit into it far too easily.

Lance claimed a spot near the wall out of habit, arms folded as his eyes swept the room. Old instincts. He watched as you were already halfway through your first drink, moving easily among faces that lit up when they saw you.

“I told you,” you said, leaning in so he could hear you over the music. “It’s just friends. Nothing fancy.”

“I see that,” he replied, watching as someone clapped you on the shoulder in greeting. Too familiar, too close. You didn’t notice his expression when you laughed and accepted another drink someone pressed into your hand, or how his gaze followed the glass all the way back to your lips.

By the third drink, something about you changed. You were lighter. Looser. The nervous edges smoothed away as you moved with the rhythm, swaying in place before pulling one of your friends along with you. “Come on,” you called to Lance, reaching back for his hand.

He hesitated. 

Just for a second.

It was enough.

You didn’t notice it consciously, but something in you dimmed all the same when he doesn’t follow right away. Your hand fell back to your side, and you turned toward the crowd instead. Laughing a little louder, moving a little faster, letting the music swallow the space where he didn’t follow.

He did go after you eventually but stayed on the perimeter, lingering at the edges of the crowd like a sentry who refused to lower his guard.

By the fourth drink, warmth had settled deep in your chest, your words loosening just enough to slip past caution. “You know,” you say, bumping lightly into him at the bar, “you don’t have to look so miserable.”

“I’m not miserable.”

You snorted. “You look like you’re guarding the mines.”

“Someone has to guard you,” he muttered before thinking better of it. The words stung more than you expected. You took another shot to wash it down. He noticed, because of course he did, and told you to slow down again. That was enough.

“I didn’t actually force you to be here,” you say bitterly, words slurring just enough to be dangerous. “So why are you acting like this is my fault?”

“I’m acting like this because you’re not pacing yourself.”

“And I’m acting like this because I’m trying to have fun,” you snapped. “Something you clearly don’t want.”

“That’s not—”

“Then what?” you demand. “What do you want, Lance?” 

Suddenly, it wasn’t about the drinks. Or the party. Or the noise swelling around you. People talked and danced in the periphery, the music pulsed through the floors. No one noticed the way the air between you tightens. He opened his mouth. Then closed it.

The silence, again, felt like an answer. 

You stared at him, not angry, just tired. “Right,” you said quietly. “Of course.” You turned away before he could stop you, weaving back toward your friends. Someone grabbed your hand and pulled you into the crowd, arms raised, bodies pressing close. You let it happen. It was easier than standing still.

Lance watched from the bar, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. 

When he reached you again, it was because you were growing more unsteady and someone else had noticed first.

“I believe they said let go.”

The person turned, took one look at him, and scoffed. Lance was glad the stranger had the common sense to walk away. Slowly, he placed his hand on your shoulder

“Are you alright?”

You flinched, then relaxed when you realized it was him. “Yeah, sorry. Uh, thanks.”

The silence that’s been hounding you two all night was heavy, charged. You looked at him differently now, eyes sharper despite the haze.

“Sometimes, I wonder why you even care so much if you ignore me half the time,” you asked. 

He didn’t answer right away. The truth hovered just out of reach, like something tangled and unnamed, he was caught between duty and want. And at this point, Lance didn’t know where one ended and the other began so instead, he settled for a poor excuse. 

“The city isn’t kind.”

You tilted your head. “Neither are you, sometimes.”

The way you said it was not unkind yet it hurt all the same. “I’m trying to keep you safe,” he said stiffly.

“I didn’t ask you to,” you replied, softer now. “You just… do.”

He stepped closer despite himself. “And if I stopped?”

You paused. For the first time all night, your confidence wavered. “I think,” you said slowly, “that would hurt more.”

The space between you suddenly felt too much and not enough at the same time. “You’ve been acting like we’re something more,” you said as you fidgeted with the ends of your dress, “but you don’t get to be. Not if you won’t—”

“Won’t what?”

“Choose me,” you whispered.

The word hung between you.

“You’re drunk,” he immediately knew he’d said the wrong thing.

Your face fell.

“Right,” you murmured. “That’s what this is.”

He reaches for you shakily. “No, wait, that’s not what I meant.” His heart hasn’t stopped pounding, he’s been out of his element all night. 

You stepped back, unsteady but deliberate. “No,” you say, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “It’s fine. Really. I get it now.” You didn’t explain any further and set out towards the door. Lance followed.

Outside, the air was cold and sharp. You leaned against the brick wall of the bar, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes glossy for reasons that had nothing to do with alcohol. He caught up to you immediately but was afraid of hovering too close. 

“I shouldn’t have invited you,” you said softly.

“You don’t mean that.”

“You hate this place,” you said with a weak laugh. “You probably hate that I even thought—”

He steps closer. “Stop.” You looked up at him, hurt written plainly across your face.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, voice low and raw. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

“That’s funny,” you replied bitterly. “Because it feels like you already decided not to want me.”

Silence. That’s always been his answer, even if he doesn’t mean it to be.

Finally, he said, “Let me take you home.” You hesitated. Then nodded. Anything was better than here and you’re drunk enough to believe you can pretend he doesn’t exist the whole ride home.

The walk toward the bus stop passed in quiet fragments, city noise dulling into something distant. Your steps slowed, then faltered. Lance felt it immediately. “You’re getting worse.”

You hummed noncommittally. “I think the world’s spinning faster.” Before he could respond, you stopped entirely. He caught you just in time, your forehead bumping lightly into his chest.

“That’s it,” he murmured, steadying you with both hands. “We’re sitting.” He guided you to a low stone wall and eased you down. You didn’t protest. Instead, you studied his face with unfocused intensity.

“You’re very close,” you said.

“You almost fell.” His cheeks burned. Lance stepped back a fraction, giving you space. “You’ve had too much, you need to be more careful next time.”

“Maybe,” you shrugged. Then, quieter, “but what if I’m sick of being careful.” His breath caught. You reached for him again, fingers brushing his wrist this time, slow and deliberate despite your unsteady state. Lance stiffened, torn between pulling away and stepping closer. You gauge his reaction, eyes searching for any discomfort. This is your last ditch attempt at honesty.

A slight tug at his hand made Lance fall to his knees. You leaned forward, closer now, your knees bracing him. He could feel your breath, warm and uneven. “Lance,” you said, voice soft and reckless. “I think I want to—” You tilted your head and leaned in. His heart slammed against his ribs. For a split second, just one, he let himself imagine what it would be like to close the distance, to stop pretending this tension wasn’t consuming him. Then reason returned, sharp and unwelcome. He caught your shoulders gently but firmly, halting you inches from his face.

“No,” he said quietly.

The word wasn’t harsh. It hurt anyway. Your brows knit together, confusion flashing across your features. “You don’t want to?”

“I do,” he admitted, voice low and strained. “That’s exactly why I can’t.” He rested his forehead briefly against yours, the closeness almost unbearable. “You’re not thinking clearly. And I won’t be the one who takes advantage of that.”

You sagged slightly at that, disappointment softening into something quieter. “You’re… good,” you murmured.

He huffed a short, humorless breath. “So I keep telling myself.” He pulled you into his cloak instead, one arm around your shoulders, keeping you warm and steady. You didn’t resist this time, if anything, you leaned into him, trusting without hesitation.

“Rain check?” you asked faintly.

Lance closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “When you’re sober.”