some post-inversion david x angel bc i like hurting and making yall hurt with me
tw/cw: post inversion, mental breakdown, ptsd, anxiety, night terrors- it’s a wild and long ride for this one.
INVERSION AND POST-INVERSION SPOILERS
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angels been david’s pillar after the inversion. and honestly? i felt that. anyways, since david’s got a small security job, angel has the house to themselves for the day. it’s quiet. they’ve taken a nap, done laundry, cleaned, even made some food. they get a phone call from their best friend. it’s all fine and dandy. they know david’s been involved in an attack (or the inversion if they’re an empowered person) and that it’s been a rough time to say the least. they both go silent for a moment before they ask “angel, how are you actually doing?” and the floodgates open. angel confesses through these heaving sobs that they don’t sleep at night because david wakes up. sometimes he’s screaming, sometimes he’s half-shifted. sometimes he’s thrashing and growling. then the crying hits for hours and the suns up by then so there’s no point in going back to sleep because angel has work in an hour. they take a nap on their “lunch” that’s really maybe 15 minutes long so they’ve got 5 minutes to shovel in something so they don’t pass out. if they’re lucky they sleep in the car for 30 minutes once a week. their phone is always on the charge because they’re so scared they’ll get that call again that somethings happened and won’t know if he’s okay or god forbid even alive. the only times they really fully shower now are when he does because he doesn’t feel safe being alone and he’s usually needing to be under warm water. the therapist said it’s a good way of feeling safe so that’s what they do. angel doesn’t remember the last time their muscles fully relaxed or their head wasn’t hurting or part of their shirt wasn’t wet from tears. through all of this, they never once blame david. but they’re so tired and angels curled into themselves, shoulders shaking and eyes watering.
it’s so hard to be someone’s support when you yourself feel like you’re crumbling but what good is it to complain when you weren’t in the ward? you weren’t in there so your needs don’t matter? the front door opened about 10 minutes ago and while every fiber of david’s being is screaming at him to go comfort his mate, he stays, partially hidden by the wall that separates the front door and hallway from the kitchen. it’s a rare moment to hear angel genuinely express what’s been on their mind about all of this. he’s told them time and time again that his trauma doesnt mean they weren’t affected. now angels apologizing to the other person on the line but it’s just so damn hard because “i don’t remember the last time i got a full nights sleep or actually let myself cry and i don’t remember to take my fucking meds anymore because i have to make sure he does because i’m so scared that i’m gonna lose him to the aftermath.” it’s silent in the house and angels wiping their tears and apologizing again and shakily laughs at something the other person said. i’ll be alright, they reassure them. i love you and i’ll talk to you soon okay?
he takes that as his cue to start walking but all he can think of is how hurt they are. he takes a glance at their wide and bloodshot eyes and finally notices how dark the rings are and when did they lose that much weight and they’ve put the mask back on, asking him about his day and how the job went. he holds them so tight and apologies fall so fast out of his mouth and now they’re crying again and he’s fighting back tears but the therapist said that holding in emotions is bad so now they’re both crying on the kitchen floor. he’s hurting and they’re hurting and he’s hurting because they’re hurting for him. they know angel’s prone to anxiety but when you’re fighting for your life in your mind, you get tunnel vision. he notes that they never once blamed him. no accusatory fingers, no clipped tones of vehemence, no sagging shoulders when he asks them to come back to bed for a minute, no dry attitude if he comes home from the office early in tears. no stiff shoulders when he’s hugging them. none of that. always warm, soft, and caring. healing.
the kitchen tile is cold through his jeans and angel’s gripping his shirt the way he did the first month after. how animalistic emotions make a person. he’s sorry and they’re sorry and while wounds don’t heal proportionally to time, they heal eventually. they always do
In the small town of Dahlia under the rule of the Shaw King, lives a small tavern. It’s occupants are queer, to say the least, but the mead is good, the bard that sings there is wonderful and the owner is a retired bard themselves.
Under the watchful eye of the mercenary for hire, the tavern brings the most peculiar pairs. It’s even said to be a matchmaking spot. Is it the drinks? Is it the atmosphere? Or is it the charm of the town that draws in the most unusual travelers?
Whose to say.
—
i’ve been very m.i.a. the past two-ish months, but i come bearing an offering of the first of a feel good, fluffy, romantic fantasy au
you can find this on ao3
cw/tw: mentions of blood and alcohol (mead is alcohol)
The usual buzz in the atmosphere held true, even as the late summer heat hung over the patrons of the small tavern. The merriment had crescendoed as more and more people found makeshift seats on the floor. The chattering and murmuring hummed pleasantly in the patrons’ ears. Light acoustics strung from the lyre of a bard mingled, floating through the conversations, while soft drumming added to the impending excitement.
The drinks flowed freely, the autumn’s first harvest melding with the taste of honey on the tongue. The pumpkin and nutmeg fell over one’s tastebuds, igniting images of crisp leaves, the cobblestone getting colder in the morning, and the apple trees swelling; ready to be harvested again. This was the harvest celebration, and the Crooked Canon was home to the best mead in the Shaw kingdom, according to the locals. Ran by a retired bard with some help of their surly vampiric friend, the tavern proved to be booming with business all year long, and tonight was no exception.
Mabon was the celebration those in the tiny town outside the palace looked forward to the most. Celebrating abundance, the town of Dahlia always lived up to the word. The prosperity reflected on the Crooked Canon, with its owner never having enough time or storage for the harvest.
“Babe, you’ll be fine. you always have enough for these bad boys” Angel said, giving the barrel behind them a slight tap. “Besides, you know the customers aren’t gonna bitch about an extra one or two,” they paused, eyes catching a row of unnumbered barrels, “five or six barrels. If anything, it might bring in some of the people from Ferris. You know they travel for the Yule festival and rave about the apple cider from Mabon. Whose to say they won’t come down this year? Last year King Keaton himself wanted a taste.”
The owner scoffed, wiping a glass dry, filling it and sliding it down the bar to Sam. “And just what do you suppose I do if the they do come? We barley have enough room for Mabon, let alone enough for Yule. I’ve been trying to get my plans for some expansions approved, but it feels like it just sits on the King’s desk until it collects dust!” They paused, sighing. “That was unfair to him. I know he’s trying his best. I just-“
Sam’s rich voice interjected. “You just need to relax. Ya know the patrons don’t care if they sit on the stools or a strip of fabric on the floor. Hell, they don’t even care if they’re sittin’ bare ass completely on that ground. They like comin’ here for you and the whole place. Besides, I reckon we’ll be sellin’ out faster than we can replace. The orchard’s puttin’ out double and last year’s batch was triple. Now go wash these dishes and take a breath.” He all but dumped a box of dusty glasses into their arms.
Sensing they wouldn’t win, Angel gently pushed Babe towards the back kitchen, the clattering of cups being the only sound between the two of them.
As Babe filled the sink, they stopped for a moment before laughing. The snickering became a full laugh, shoulders shaking and all, with Angel standing with a hand on the well pump, completely bewildered.
“Did you hit your head or something?” They asked.
As Babe wiped a tear from their eyes, they stood up. “Sorry. I just thought about how absolutely ridiculous I’ve been. I shouldn’t worry about space, or barrels, or any dumb shit like that. I miss them, ya know? It’s not the same, and with my father’s birthday being next month and the harvest proving more than usual, and Keaton supposedly coming to visit-“
“It’s okay.” Angel cut off, handing Babe a glass to rinse. “This year’s been really hard. You don’t have to keep pretending you’re fine. You know you can’t keep secrets from me.” They wiggled their brows, earning them another giggle from their friend.
Babe sighed amusedly. “No, I really can’t, can I? Nothing escapes that insightful knowledge you have about me.”
A knock on the doorframe took their attention away from the dishes.
“Sorry to interrupt your gossiping therapy session, but do either of you have some spare trousers? Mine got completely ripped during my last assignment.” The mercenary’s voice elicited excited noises from the two as they bound their way over to their friend.
“WHEN DID YOU GET BACK?” Angel exclaimed, taking the bag from their shoulder. “God DAMN this thing is heavy. How much did you get paid?”
The other two laughed as Babe took their sword.
“Just now you hooligan. Though I’m not sure if it was worth all the trouble.” Sweetheart sighed, watching Angel heave the bag onto the counter like it weighed nothing.
Babe wet a rag and absentmindedly cleaned the blood spots from the blade first. “I thought you said it was going to be an easy assignment? Was the Shade truly that tricky?”
Sweetheart pulled an extra stool and winced as they sat down. “It wasn’t bad before, but it got me pretty good. I stopped by Marie and got nothing but an earful while she healed me. The Shade wasn’t anything I haven’t dealt with before, but it had some kind of creature with it. And before you ask, no I don’t know what kind of creature it was.”
Sam suddenly appeared in the doorway, eyes scanning the rogue’s appearance. “Ya look like hell, and smell worse than it. Stop moving, let me get a good look at you.” He wiped his hands, taking in the cuts and bruises on them. He smelled fresh blood, and saw a small trickle of said thing from their leg. “Jesus Christ Merc. What kinda assignment did you get?”
The mercenary looked up with their eyes closed. “If you’re gonna lecture me, save it. Marie gave me enough as it is.”
He rolled his eyes. “Just give me your damn leg. I’m not having you bleedin’ and drippin’ blood everywhere and I’m sure as hell not havin’ ya be in pain.”
They stuck their leg out to him, muttering under their breath.
“I can hear you smartass.”
“That was the point.”
Babe snorted, setting the freshly-cleaned blade down and rummaging through the cabinet for leather polish.
Angel laughed, offering a (clean) rag for their sweat. “I have to agree with Sam. You do smell like hell.”
They grimaced, feeling his healing magic snap at their skin. “You did that on purpose.”
“You’re bleedin’ onto the floor.”
“Is’not like I’m trying to.”
“Not like you’re not trying to.”
“You know what-“
“Settle down children. Sweetheart, clean the blood when you’re all healed and go take a bath upstairs. There’s plenty of hot water, and Sam, go and tend the bar. I’ll be out in a moment.” Babe interrupted, stifling a laugh.
“Yes Babe.”
“Okay Babe.”
They both muttered, admitting silent defeat.
“Hey Angel, aren’t you performing tonight?” Sweetheart asked, looking at the pan pipe on the counter.
“Yeah. It’s been a while and rent’s due soon.”
“What do you mean ‘rent’? You live here!”Babe exclaimed as the bard laughed.
“I’m only saying! Lodging outside of this place ain’t cheap ya know!” They fished two gold pieces out of their apron pocket. “For the year’s rent and food.”
With a sharp toss, they flicked the two coins up, landing right into Babe’s open rag with leather polish. They stared at the two pieces in disbelief.
“Angel, this is too much.” They struggled to form the words. “The Canon is fine and you pull your weight around just fine. You don’t need to pay me, you’re my best friend- sorry.” A sharp look from Sweetheart caused them to stumble over their words. “One of my best friends and if my parents had a problem with you staying here since we were kids, they would’ve said so. I’m not making you pay rent when you have lodging to think about and traveling.” Babe took a breath, taking a clean part of the bloodied rag and wiping the polish off them. “I’m not accepting these. You need them far more than me. Plus, this is from when you went to that weird cult meeting right? Or was it some school with that weird headmaster?”
“Hey Canon, get your bard out here. We’ve got the extra mead set up.” Vincent poked his head through the door, ruby reds looking in amusement between the four of them. “It’s a packed house and I’ve got some patrolling to get done.”
Before any of them could reply, a short yelp came from the mercenary’s mouth.
“Watch the leg! I’ve got a bar stool to sit on tonight.” They playfully hissed at Sam, who rolled his eyes in response.
“Uh-huh. You’re all healed up anyways. You should really stop getting so injured on these assignments. Marie ain’t gonna like to keep seeing you like this. I sure as hell don’t.” He got up from his squat and took a fresh rag before hurrying out.
“I hate it when he calls me Canon.” Babe muttered, their grip on the sheath tightening slightly and their fingers polishing harder.
Angel took the lyre from the counter before sympathetically patting their friend’s shoulder. “I’m just surprised he even showed up tonight. He’s been awfully conspicuous about something. Not sure what though.”
“I’ll bet it’s a woman. Or money. Actually, it’s probably a horse. You know how William spoils him with them.” Sweetheart said from the wash basin.
“I mean, he showed up tonight. I can’t be mad at the other times because of that incident out in the wonderwoods.” Babe shrugged, sheathing the sword and shoving back into Sweetheart’s belt. “There’s a basin upstairs in my bathroom that’s made for washing your hair. And your body.” They quipped before standing in the doorway.
The tavern owner took a deep breath and stepped into the main room.
look at that! it’s me! dumping another half and half because i have so many in my notes that i’ll never get around to making actual fics
here’s a cute lil asher x babe moment because my god do i have an infatuation with this man
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ash pulls a lot of pranks on babe, but they’re harmless and babe finds them pretty funny so they really don’t mind. he’s a jokester through and through and babe adores that about him. he even pulled one of those pranks once back when they first started dating where they were walking and he paused and said “hey babe can i ask you something” then got down to tie his shoe but it looked like he was proposing. luckily babe has a really good sense of humor and was mostly just freaked out that he had considered that so early in the relationship. plot twist: he knew from almost the very start he wanted to marry them and many loving years later they’re walking in the same place when he says “babe i need to tie my shoe hold on” and they shrug and say okay until it’s been a minute of silence and they turn around and he’s on one knee, genuinely, this time and he’s got the ring and they laugh saying “nice one ash” until he gives them a soft half-smile and their eyes widen and they go “oh my god you’re serious. you’re not joking. you’re not kidding holy shit oh my god” and they’re tearing up and he’s trying to ask the damn question but he’s laughing at them and babe’s about to have a heart attack and looking at him with wide teary eyes and he says “i’m not serious about a lot of things but i am serious about you. and this. and i want all of this forever” and he starts tearing up and barely chokes out the question and babe’s crying and now they’re both laughing and luckily, milo’s the best secret camera guy around. he’s in a bush 4 feet from them
(update: said fic can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39573912)
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“It’s not like I’m something new everyday” they blurted once after catching him one afternoon. He had laughed, further confusing them as they looked into him. “What? It’s true and you know it.” They seemed to fold slightly into themselves as he laughed more.
“I just like lookin’ at ya, that’s all.”
They paused, their brows furrowed. He watched intently, making a mental note of how cute their scar was. The one that went through the arch of their right eyebrow and nearly down to their eyelid. It was the only scar on his Darlin’s body that wasn’t from a fight. He remembered the tears that fell from his eyes as they told the story of why they had a lifetime ban from a pottery center and why “I’m sorry to dash your Ghost dreams Sam but I’m not allowed to be around wheels or clay anymore”. He hadn’t ever laughed like that before, or at least it had been years since he did. The cherry wine in his system pleasantly burned him, or maybe it was just that Darlin’; their cheeks flushed and looking at him with stars in their eyes that made his cheeks warm. It was the second time they kissed and Sam swore he felt his soul leave his body the second their lips met.
The talk wasn’t violent. It wasn’t explosive, it wasn’t heated. It was calm: so chillingly calm and Sam swore he could feel time again in a way that unnerved him. The last time he felt like that was with his progeny (and by default, their progeny but everyone treated the two of them like they were both Sam’s) and that was far more uncomfortable that he had ever really verbalized.
They sat at his (really, it was also Darlin’s) dining room table. The evening saw the sun hang low in the sky, refusing to dip below the horizon. The house was freshly cleaned, a single candle burning on the island. Its sweet aroma curled pleasantly along the walls of the house, leaving a softer version of the smell behind as it lazily exited through the open windows. The grandfather clock that Sam had made himself stood mighty and tall in living room, occupying a space in between two bookshelves with almost comically different genres lining each one.
To be honest, Sam hated that damn candle. Vampire senses were a blessing, but also a curse when it came to things they didn’t like, and that candle was one of them. However, it was Darlin’s favorite and they never burned it longer than an hour. Their excuses consisted of “It’s an expensive candle and I don’t have much money” or “It’s discontinued, so I gotta be careful.” And yet, when he was out grocery shopping one night, he saw that exact candle and smiled.
He never did tell them otherwise.
The air was heavy and stagnant despite the breeze rustling through the leaves and the screen of the open window. It felt nice, but only cooled Darlin’ and Sam’s nerves for a small time.
They picked at the oak, seemingly unable to meet his eyes; those beautiful mulberry eyes they’ve looked at hundreds of thousands of times before. The maroon irises melted with streaks of chocolate brown in an almost hypnotizing swirl. They sat slightly bit sunken in, adding a certain depth to his expressions. Just him looking at them with complete neutrality could make them shiver. When he was fed, the mulberry brightened to a dark reddish color. It reminded them of the cherry wine they impulsively bought one night and how they talked for hours over the fireplace. Both of their cheeks hurt by the time they decided to sleep, and the sun had announced its presence. Those eyes made them feel so safe and loved and cared for, for so many years now. Yet, they couldn’t meet them. Their fingers threatened to tremble as nails scratched against the wood again, quiet breaths shaking slightly.
Sam silently observed his lover. Noting the refusal to meet his gaze, he settled on roaming his eyes along them, drinking in the same details he’d known for four years know. Darlin’ always asked why he looked at them so often.
“It’s not like I’m something new everyday” they blurted once after catching him one afternoon. He had laughed, further confusing them as they looked into him. “What? It’s true and you know it.” They seemed to fold slightly into themselves as he laughed more.
“I just like lookin’ at ya, that’s all.”
They paused, their brows furrowed. He watched intently, making a mental note of how cute their scar was. The one that went through the arch of their right eyebrow and nearly down to their eyelid. It was the only scar on his Darlin’s body that wasn’t from a fight. He remembered the tears that fell from his eyes as they told the story of why they had a lifetime ban from a pottery center and why “I’m sorry to dash your Ghost dreams Sam but I’m not allowed to be around wheels or clay anymore”. He hadn’t ever laughed like that before, or at least it had been years since he did. The cherry wine in his system pleasantly burned him, or maybe it was just that Darlin’; their cheeks flushed and looking at him with stars in their eyes that made his cheeks warm. It was the second time they kissed, and Sam swore he felt his soul leave his body the second their lips met.
A soft cough from said person brought him back from his reverie. They eyed him with concern and heavy amusement. He did that sometimes. His eyes sort of glaze over with a dreamy look to them. They can see the adoration he holds and freely shows and they accept it (now at least). Sam retreats partially into his mind and suddenly they’re hit with a wash of love. It pulsates, their core meeting his as their threads entwine. A warmth floods Darlin’s senses, like rain on a summer night. They feel more alive with him around, and ironically enough, he does too. They like seeing that look on his face and how his body seems to move closer to theirs subconsciously. His fingers itch to touch some part of their skin and Darlin’ makes it a point to find his hand. They wish so desperately that he’d reach for them, to soothe their frayed nerves and to keep them from picking the damn table apart.
Neither of them expected to be so anxious about this conversation.
There wasn’t anything to be anxious about. They both knew that. And now they’re sitting at this dark oak table, feeling like they’re going to jump out of their respective skins. Sam takes a breath before speaking, and so does Darlin’.
“About that immortality-“
“We need to figure this-“
They stared at each other for a split second before laughing. It wasn’t anything particularly funny, but it did break the goddamn tension that threatened to suffocate them. They both giggled for a minute, finding it silly that they were so nervous to talk about it. It’s Darlin’, and it’s Sam, they both thought.
Sam spoke first after wiping a stray tear from his eye.
“Look at us. Nervous to have this talk that we both know isn’t gonna be the end of the world and here we are frettin’ over each other. We both know I’ll live forever, assumin’ I don’t die of some awful battle. You,” he faltered.
They offered him a small smile.
“I won’t live forever. I know I’ll die old and wrinkled while you stay young and healthy. I’ll be accused of robbing cradles and they’ll nearly faint after learning you’re the older one. It’s okay baby. I’m fully aware of my painfully short lifespan compared to you.” They let out a humorless, almost bitter laugh. It felt wrong to say it out loud even though they both know it's the truth. It sits uncomfortably in the air before residing in their chests.
His brows furrowed a bit, the lines in his forehead deepening. “Don’t shifters live longer than most? I mean, I could be wrong, but I do remember reading somethin’.”
They shrugged almost impassively; their nails picked at their cuticles.
“Wolves don’t live much longer than regular people. Maybe by 5-10 years. It’s not a huge difference. We are still people, after all. Just… slightly different. Ain’t much to it really.”
While he noted they still couldn’t look him in the eye, the slight accent that pushed its way into their voice caused his heart to flutter for a moment.
He really did love them. Sam Collins was a fool to fall in love with a shifter, but somehow his heart completely blocked out his logic the second he laid eyes on them, sniffing around his property at some godawful time (was it 4:30am?) of night. The determination rolled off them in waves; it nearly knocked him to his feet. Their eyes were sharp and fierce, observant and cautious as they glared at him for daring to ask why they were on his property. It made him shiver involuntarily. He always did like folks that knew what they wanted, who they wanted and why they wanted it.
They sighed again, running a hand through their hair. The words seemed to pour out, like the dam broke and the forest was being flooded. They couldn’t stop it once they started. Like prosecco, it had been building up for months now and the cork finally popped.
“I love you, Samuel Collins. And I love being with you. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about this whole immortality thing. If I did, I wouldn’t have made the choice to stop running from how I felt about you. Hell, if I cared even a fraction, I wouldn’t be at this fucking table about to shit myself from this entire topic. You know what you’re getting into. I know what I’m getting into. Can we be done with this and enjoy the house being actually cleaned for once?”
Sam could feel the heat rising in their body. Darlin’s leg started shaking again, urging him to speak before they locked themselves away again. Old habits die hard, but they die harder in Darlin's case.
“Darlin’, there ain’t anything in this world that could keep me from loving you. If you go grey, I’ll still love you. It’s still you. Underneath everything: every scar, every cut, every bruise, every wrinkle or sunburn or whatever the hell, I would still be with you. If the world ended tomorrow, I’d still spend those last 24 hours in your presence. Time is nothing but pocket change to me baby. The bank of time will let me withdraw however much I want until I decide if I’ve had enough. I know time is precious to you and I want to make sure you feel that way with me. I want to see you until your dyin’ day. Whenever that is-“ he paused, taking their hand in one of his and gently moving their chin to make them look at him with the other, “-and it better not be soon, lord knows you have a habit of agin’ me despite my frozen age- I want nothing more than to be next to you. Nothing you say can scare me away. Aging be damned. I want you to age. I want to see you look older and more beautiful and more radiant. I want to see the crows feet on your face when you smile at me and I want to hear your voice change. I want you to get what I won’t ever have. I want you to see your friends and family grey with you. You deserve to have a full life.”
Tears welled up in their eyes as their expression softened. It was rare to see them like this, heart completely bared. Bared only to him. He held it so carefully. It was an honor. It was a privilege. One that he’d never take for granted.
“You’d want that, for me?” They choked out, the tears fully falling now. “Wrinkles and all?”
He nodded, placing a chaste kiss on their lips before pressing his forehead onto theirs, both of their eyes closing.
i’d say sorry in advanced but i’m really not bc damien 🤝 me: being the peripheral friend and never being anyones first anything
not a full fic, just some rambling half-fic/half-headcannon
potential spoilers for damien’s backstory and explanation in his non-canon confession video
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damien wanted that so badly. he sees how the other kids get along so easily with each other so why can’t that be him? of course it couldn’t, so why did he want it so much? he stopped trying with birthdays, holidays, any celebration really. not when he knew the notes and gifts would be discarded. whether the kid had the decency to do it out of his sight? it was a matter of how they were raised. he couldn’t remember a birthday in all 8 years of his 10 year life that he hadn’t been crying in his mothers arms because candles had been blow out with just her. he thinks he was 11 when he decided that if he wasn’t attached, they couldn’t hurt him.
high school was no exception. eat, study, sleep, lather, rinse, repeat. until he’s smacked in the face his fourth year at DAMN because some first year and their friends are upset that he didn’t show up to some thing they texted about in the group chat. hux is damn near crying when damien nonchalantly brushing off their concern.
“look, i wasn’t explicitly invited. i don’t assume anything.” he’s gruff in his tone, hoping that maybe this time the trio will leave him alone. the grounds slightly shaking beneath his feet while the freelancer is trying not to laugh at hux’s emotions before turning to him and telling him that damien, no one was ‘explicilty’ invited. if we text about it in the group chat, we want you there. we always want you. you’re our friend. we don’t exclude our friends. and his whole world stops for a moment. his solar plexus is on fire and he’s struggling for a moment. he can vaguely hear lasko stuttering his way through his agreement with the freelancer and he feels huge arms around him and his feet are off the ground while his shirts getting damp because hux is upset that he didn’t feel like he was included. he’s trying to shove the jock off him and escape because he can feel himself letting them in in that moment and his flight response is kicking and he needs to be alone while processing that this little ragtag trio of dahlia considers him a friend. something he wanted so desperately and now that he’s got it he’s running?
is it fear of acceptance? of them seeing his worst and still staying just to get a glimpse of the best? is it fear of rejection? him feeling 10 again, but this time there’s no arms for him to crawl into, no lips on his temple and no rocking in a lap to soothe his sadness. he stops struggling for a moment and asks hux to let him down and he obliges provided damien promises to not assume. he laughs bitterly, saying how familiar that sounded until he’s accosted by the freelancer’s arms around his abdomen and he feels his walls coming down. let’s hope he doesn’t regret it this time.
day 3 of the 30 day writing challenge little late but it was chores and errands on my day off
prompt: use the words kitchen, date and music
lasko x freelancer (i adore them so much)
cross posted on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39511536
lasko had become a part of the freelancer's routine. when? they're not sure, but they don't think they'd give him up for anything.
—
The Freelancer wasn’t sure when this became a habit: finding Lasko in their kitchen around 9am on a Sunday morning, making them breakfast. They weren’t complaining. He was a great chef, and it showed in the way he spoke about what he made. It was refreshing, to see him have an air of loud confidence about him. It could’ve been that one Saturday last year. They invited the boys over for general tomfoolery after getting out of school for the year. It turned into some drinking games. While Hux and Damien could handle their liquor, Lasko was the unfortunate lightweight. After an ill-fated couple hours in their bathroom the next morning, he turned into the kitchen, mortified and not sure how to apologize except to make some food before leaving. The Freelancer had to have something right? And he could play some music that always helped a hangover. They wouldn’t mind, surely. And they didn’t. So, they invited him the next weekend. And the next. And then the routine became a fixture in both of their lives.
Before they’d stumble into the kitchen bleary-eyed with a fried brain from an all-night study session, they’d look at the freckles on his back as he slept, nails gently running over the patterns they’d see. They’d drink in his features in the early morning light that peeked through the blinds. They’d note his nose, how the bridge stood straight, and the nose tipped slightly upward. How his lips parted so slightly, his gentle breathing moving a small piece of hair. How his hair splayed out on the satin pillowcase and curl into their neck. How his limbs, long and lanky, seemed to find a way to tangle around the sheets and cover him to look like he was a sculpture. Undine Rising from the Waters had nothing on the way his skin was so smooth: how the fabric folded and twisted onto his muscles, leaving his upper body bared. How the goosebumps lined his arms, the hair on them standing up. The Freelancer would move themselves to him if they woke up facing away from him. They’d curl themselves against him, fingertips brushing against the curve of his spine. A small smile graced their lips as they traced his skin entirely.
Lasko knew they woke up before he did, but they always slept for another hour or so after. He liked that. Their touch was so gentle: so calming. He got to see past their rough exterior, the spikes and armor stripped away, revealing the tender flesh he cradled in his arms every Saturday night. He got to hear their voice deepened and hoarse after speaking all day. It was music to his ears. Lasko got to see the genuine Freelancer. The one that cried into his chest after getting a phone call and voicemail from their parents cursing them for being “devil born” for something they had no control over. The one that laughed softly and smoothly at his stupid jokes and puns. The one that stroked his cheek before kissing him with a feather-like touch. The one that wasn’t a ghost in a room that they should’ve been alive in. The one that kissed him fiercely after he confessed his feelings to them. The one that laughed so wonderfully and accepted his request after he stumbled through asking them on an official date. He got to see that in these four walls.
