5+1 - Hate To Be Lame; aka, 5 times Gavin thought he loved Freelancer, and 1 time he knew
Reposting this fic bc I've made some edits Gavin feels are back on the menu!!
Click here to read on Ao3 pls i will love u forever
Based on the song of the same name by Lizzy McAlpine, see link at the end!
1.
"It's always on the tip of my tongue.I read an article on the Internet - told me that that's how you know you're fallin' in love,Don't really trust what's on the Internet, but maybe just this once..."
One empty pizza box, two Big Gulps, comfortable and cross-legged on the floor: nights like this have started to become commonplace.
Gavin looks up from his laptop, not quite sure what to make of what he's just read.
They're sitting opposite him, surrounded by papers, textbooks, various screens....locked in. No exit, no shortcuts, no escape till they've gleaned every piece of knowledge required to prepare for tomorrow's test.
It's a strange sight to witness: a self-inflicted levee, somewhat reminiscient of charmed salt circles once believed to keep out evil spirits... monsters... demons...
He smiles. It's laughable - futile even. It would be far too easy to lean across, break the barrier, take their attention from their studies to more pressing matters.
Take them away from their books...
Take them upstairs...
Take them right here, perhaps...
Delicious premonitions of the night to come mingle with memories of nights past, bringing a smirk and a subtle blush to his cheeks as he continues quietly observing freelancer from across the room. His core flares up ever so slightly - a subtle sensation that's common enough these days for him to recognise it: desire. Not theirs, his. Not quite lust, nor that familar hunger, but something else. Something... more.
His eyes glance back to the computer screen in front of him, his question still illuminating the search bar:
'what's it like to fall for someone?'
He sighs, closes his laptop, and leans forward to push the textbook from their hands...
2. "It's always on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself from sayin' it, tell myself it's not the right time or something dumb
But then you kiss me like you do, and we're right back where we started from"
'Bedsheets, no clothes, touch me like nobody else does...'
Mornings like this have become commonplace.
He watches intently, eyes transfixed on the slow and steady rise and fall of their chest as the first brave rays of sunlight dare to peek through the curtains. Blotches and lines of pink and purple mark their skin: memories of last night now imprinted across their body. His hands, his lips, his teeth like that of a cartographer mapping out paths taken towards pleasure, roads travelled to ecstacy just hours before...
No wonder they're still asleep.
His hands move to hover over the darkest marks, healing them instantly, but this scene has played out enough times now that he knows not to heal every one - they like seeing them the morning after. No, they want to see.
He contemplates this thought for a moment, hands hovering over their torso, his core thrumming with energy and excitement and... something he can't quite place. He observes them in silent admiration, reverent prayer perhaps - although to whom, he isn't quite sure.
He should tell them.
He should just tell them here and now.
But he's been here before...too many times.
It's never the right time.
Fuck, is there ever a 'right' time?
He should just ask them-
Their eyes flutter open, breath catching, deepening as they rouse from their sleep,
"Gavin?"
"Good morning, deviant," he breathes in a hushed whisper, hand coming to rest on their shoulder, "sleep well?"
"I always do when you're here with me."
For a second he swears his heart stops.
Tell them, just tell them, just ask them-
"Are you okay?"
"Hm?" he responds, their question bringing him back to reality,
"You look kind of...all up in your head..." they muse, eyes flicking between his in an attempt to see what's going on behind them.
just fucking tell them-
"Just thinking about last night...and the night before, and the one before that, and-ow!"
A playful shove to the chest stops him in his tracks. He pauses for a moment, eyes locked with theirs. He could push back, overpower them with ease...they both know that. So it's all the more telling when he allows them to push him back and into the bed, moving to straddle his hips...
"How about you stop reminiscing and do something about it?" they ask, a suitably deviant smirk appearing on their lips, eyes bright with excitement as they lean down towards him, "I don't start till after lunch, and unless you've anywhere else to be...", breathing the words into his lungs, "we could just stay in bed..."
And just like that, their lips are on his, his fingers in their hair, their breath in his lungs...
I'll talk to them tomorrow.
3.
It's always in the back of my mind.
Maybe my mistakes are the reason that I made it back to you in time
If I could rewind, would there be some butterfly effect?
What if we never met?
What if the stars never aligned?
10pm on a Tuesday in that fateful 7-11 - call it a snacks run. They needed gas, that's all - right?
Joint trips like these have become commonplace.
They're walking idly round the store, pausing to look at nothing in particular, fingers trailing along the shelves. Hair soft, clothes casual, no makeup.
He watches from the counter while waiting to collect their obligatory slurpees.
There's no need to ask, he knows which one they want - they've done this often enough now for him to know their usual order.
A slight flicker in the cashier's energy catches his attention, and sure enough, he looks round just in time to spot her not-so-discreetly checking him out. He can almost taste it, her desire, her excitement...Nothing strong enough to be intentional - it's just a momentary, unconscious flare of attraction. He feels his core reach out towards it, just a taste, just a snack, just a momentary indulgence...but something inside stops him.
What's wrong?
Why not?
What's holding me bac-
They're laughing.
Their laugh.
He can feel their giddyness from ten feet away.
It's warm.
"Just a second, freelancer..."
He smiles at the cashier, swapping coins for cups. Her aura flares again, his core stretching in response, just a taste just a bite-
But that same silent whisper from stops him.
"Gaaaaaavin" comes a singsong voice from the aisle.
His gaze snaps round to meet theirs, a trimphant look etched on their delicate features.
he doesn't want it if it's not them.
it's not them
he wants them
he only wants them-
4. "Hate to admit, but it might be true"
It's 10am in his favourite freelancer's kitchen - and he's flipping pancakes. Mornings like this have become commonplace, watching intently for the telltale bubbles to appear on the surface before he turns them over.
A soft smile graces his features as he remembers: they taught him that trick...
Hands holding his,
tasting batter from their fingertips,
"you've never made pancakes?"
...is something burning?
Fuck.
Discs of charcoal find their end in the compost bin, wisps of smoke wafting towards the ceiling- lapses in his attention are commonplace these days...
Feelings are a personal failure in his line of business, he knows this. Pleasure, sure. Feelings? No. Don't get attached. He's good at that. Attraction's objective, he keeps himself separate, his real self anyway...
God, why does he feel this way?
It started as a fling, but what was once an exploration of shared interest has since taken on new shapes...
Are they friends?
Are they more?
It's not just about food... Feeding from them isn't the same as with others, it's not conscious, it's not deliberate, it just...seeps into him. It's like they're willingly giving their energy to him, without either of them trying...like osmosis...
Great, so we're on junior school science terms Gavin?
Makes sense.
Why not try photosynthesis while we're at it seeing as making food the human way isn't working...'
He watches as his second attempt at pancakes coalesces into one mass of batter...Sure, he could just snap his fingers and use magic... but they would know.
They always know. And he wants to do it right. For them.
He's never known what love is. At least, not in the traditional sense. Sure, he's made love to people. Some ask for it soft and slow, passionate, close... He's only too happy to oblige...but it's a show. It's not about him. It's giving the people what they want so he can get what he needs...
Whore.
In every sense of the word perhaps.
But it's different with them...it's not about sex. It's not sex. Well - sometimes it's sex.
It's great sex.
Fuck...what?
No.
It's all the in between parts that don't make sense.
And yet, here he stands: making another batch of pancakes to carry upstairs to them for breakfast in bed. And it feels as natural as magic does - to him anyway.
5 "Hate to admit, but I think you knew"
Salt. Sweat. Synergy. Heaving chests, glistening bodies, a heady scent lingering the air... These encounters have become commonplace.
You're the best I've ever had - don't you know?
Their pleasure tastes sweet, heady, rich...Like aged wine, dark chocolate, red velvet; their satisfaction, their energy, their essence seeps into him without reservation, warming him, suffusing through his core, sating his hunger, restoring his power...
It's warm in the afterglow.
They breathe together.
As one.
Their aura has changed lately, but he can't quite put his finger on it. Amongst their desire, their laughter, their comfort, their happiness - there's something else creeping in.
Typically they're so constant, emitting energy as steadily as photons of light - even when their feelings fluctuate - but now... it's more like radioactive decay... Their particles penetrate, manipulate and change the very structure of his core... He's mutating in an altogether pleasant sort of way.
They roll onto their side as his hand finds the curve of their waist. It's familiar, it's a pattern.
Eyes meet
Breath hitches
Their aura flares
it feels warm.
+1
"Hate to be lame, but I might love you"
They're back here, again. In their apartment, their bed, with their ecstacy suffusing the air around them... a rather delicious idea of theirs really - the blindfold, the restraints...
They said they wanted to feel.
That they trusted him with themselves.
"Is what they say true, deviant..? Do blindfolds heighten the other senses..?"
Their mouth opens,
Their back arches,
He's watching them, like, really watching the...and it feels like a knife in his chest.
He can't keep going like this.
"Gavin? Is everything okay?"
It's like pushing a beach ball under water - if he tries to hold out much longer he's going to overflow, emotion pouring out of every part of him without restraint,
it'd be ugly,
but perhaps they'd think it beautiful,
"Gavin?"
"I need a minute...I... I need to talk to you"
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