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7s3ven · 4 months

Note

Hii I loved your daughter of hades x luke fic when is part 2 coming out?? But I had an idea like what if something happened that got her mad and something happens with her flames like they turn black or blue and is like a really strong flame and then luke comes sees this and calms her down and people are like ohh woowww.. bcs he was the only one that could do that

Part 2 is coming out soon! :). For now, I’ll write a short(ish) one shot about your cute idea! 😽. This can be read as a standalone but it makes references to the og so if some parts don’t make sense, you know why.

( master list )

HELL-FIRE : part 1 / part 2 (in progress)

( this is a little spin-off from hell-fire )

Luke (PJO) x Hades! Reader

A/N : completely unrelated, but I believe I could write the most toxic things if I tried hard enough.

Warnings : injuries, y/n and luke making out at the end but I didn’t write it very descriptive just in case lol

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Y/N was never one to participate in capture the flag. She always came up with a weak excuse to skip it and Chiron had to let her past in fear she’d blow up the camp. Again. It had happened a few times actually.

“Why won’t you play capture the flag?” Luke asked as he shoved a chip into his mouth. The pair were on their routinely midnight walks, which had become a regular thing after their first stroll. Y/N wasn’t so keen on getting caught again but Luke could be very persuasive.

“It’s just a game.” Y/N lightly scoffed, gripping the bluebird chip packet tightly so it didn’t fall out of her grasp. “I don’t see what the big deal is… there’s nothing appealing about it.” She mindlessly shrugged.

“Hm, I can think of a few reasons why you should play.” Luke grinned while Y/N arched an eyebrow, somewhat curious. “Firstly, I’ll be playing with you. Secondly, we’ll probably win. And don’t forget about the glory.”

“Glory is fine but you know what’s better? Not breaking a leg in a stupid game.” Y/N sarcastically smiled while Luke rolled his eyes. During Y/N’s first and only game, she had broken a leg. Granted, it happened while she was rolling down a steep hill.

“Come on, Blaze. You’ll love it.” He assured her, patting her back.

“I’ll hate it even more if you’re with me.” She grumbled in response, her tough facade never faltering. But Luke could see the apples of her cheeks turning pink and he noticed the way Y/N’s eyes darted to glance at him. She couldn’t help but let her eyes flicker to his lips for a split second.

“Why do you love such a game anyway? It’s a waste of time.” She shoved her hands into her pockets.

“Annabeth is captain and she’d be overjoyed if you came. I think she has a kiddy crush on you.” Luke chuckled to himself while Y/N rolled her eyes for what seemed like the fifth time in an hour.

“Nobody has a crush on me.” She uttered, kicking a small stone across the grass. Luke’s eyebrows raised and he paused.

“Okay… what does that make me then?”

Y/N quickly turned her head to look at him. She spluttered, tripping over her own words as her mind tried to decipher his statement. Y/N was always calm and collected but only Luke had seen this side of her. The flustered side, the embarrassed side. “You… you’re lying.” She finally decided on something to say.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Don’t play jokes on me, Luke.”

“You think my affection is a joke? Blaze, I literally get you flowers every day and watch you burn them then throw the petals away. Have you noticed how I don’t give flowers to anyone else?”

“It’s a stupid gesture.” She muttered, “Besides,” Y/N cleared her throat, looking away like she was embarrassed. “I don’t always throw the petals out… sometimes I keep them.”

“Oh, charming, witty, and a hopeless romantic. So, what’s the reason you hate capture the flag so much?”

“It’s stupid. That’s the only reason. People take it too seriously here.” Y/N signed, shoving the bag of chips into Luke’s arms.

“Play one game with me?” Luke asked. Y/N frowned, shaking her head.

“Not a chance. Nice try, though." Y/N briefly smiled before she walked back towards her cabin. Luke was quick to rush after her.

“One game. For Annabeth, at least. She likes your style of fighting.” He begged, blocking her path. He clasped his hands together, pleading her. Y/N sighed at his pitiful attempt but she was tired and every time she tried to step around him, he stopped her.

“Fine.” She snapped. Luke’s eyes lit up and she’d be lying if she didn’t feel her lips twitch into a small grin at his happy demeanour. “Good night, Luke.” She said, bumping his shoulder as she brushed past him.

“Night, Blaze.” He called out after her, “I can’t wait to kick Clarisse’s ass tomorrow!” Y/N huffed in amusement.

“Don’t let her hear you say that.” She uttered, yanking open her rickety cabin door. It creaked and Y/N almost cringed. She’d have to ask someone to fix it for her. The door handle was almost falling off too.

“Hey, Y/N, catch.” Luke unexpectedly tossed something red towards her. She barely managed to grasp the strange object. She stared down at it, shaking her head.

“Did you seriously just give me a pomegranate?” She asked, but she didn’t burn the gift this time.

Luke shrugged as he walked towards her once more. “I heard it’s your favourite fruit.” He said, shivering slightly in the cool breeze. It was, which was ironic considering the story about Hades and Persephone. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow, Blaze.” He tucked a stray lock of Y/N’s H/C hair behind her ear, smiling. He was far too close for comfort but Y/N’s body made no move to shove him away. She didn’t know if she even wanted to move.

“You should go, Luke. Before we get in trouble again.” She muttered. Luke cleared his throat, nodding.

“Right… yeah. I’ll leave.” His eyes flickered to her lips for a moment just as Y/N’s had before he thickly swallowed. “Sweet dreams, Blaze.”

The moment he was out of her sight, Y/N hurried into her cabin and slammed the door behind her. She buried her hot face in the palms of her hands, quietly groaning in frustration as she slid down the wall.

She was starting to fall for Luke.

Y/N fiddled with her metal helmet. She aimlessly rocked back and forth on her heels, taking notice of the gazes she was receiving. It was rare for Y/N to even be outside, let alone play a game of capture the flag.

She could see Luke talking to Annabeth and quickly excusing himself to jog over to Y/N’s side. “I wasn’t sure if you were actually going to show up.” He chuckled.

“This is stupid.” She muttered, scoffing.

“And yet you’re still here.” Luke slung an arm around Y/N’s shoulder, leading her towards Annabeth. “Hey, Annie, look who decided to join us.” The young girl’s eyes lit up and she sent Y/N a small smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was coming, Luke?” Annabeth questioned.

“I only convinced her yesterday.” Luke shrugged, “But she’s joining us now so will that change the plan or?”

“Of course it will.” Annabeth sighed, annoyed with Luke.

“If it makes it easier,” Y/N piped up, “I can just guard the flag.” Annabeth bit down on her lower lip as she thought long and hard, mumbling to herself. She finally decided on an idea.

“I have a better position for you. You’ll be taking Luke’s place.”

“What?” The brunette boy behind Y/N questioned, “But… huh? How come I have to guard the flag? You know how much I like attacking!”

“The other kids are scared of Y/N,” The young Athena girl turned to Y/N, “No offence. Whether we let Y/N guard or flag or let her take the opposing team’s one, we’ll still win because we have an advantage that the red team doesn’t.”

Luke raised an eyebrow, “And that is?”

Annabeth heaved an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes at her brotherly figure. “We have the daughter of Hades who’s rumoured to be quite a good runner.”

“You did track?” Luke turned his head to face Y/N. She silently nodded. Annabeth ushered Luke off and he led Y/N over to his squad, which was temporarily hers. “Stay safe.” He said as he checked Y/N’s armour for the fifth time in two minutes.

“What are you, man? Her mother?” Chris teased, shoving Luke. “Stop worrying about her. We’ll keep your girl safe.” Luke sent his friend a warning glare.

“One scratch,” He said, “And I’ll tackle you.” Chris raised his arms in surrender.

“You got it, captain.”

Y/N fumbled with her heavy sword. She bit the inside of her cheek, watching as her teammates effortlessly fought off the opposing team. The words Annabeth whispered in her ear swirled around in her mind.

“You’re our advantage, Y/N. I need you to lie low and don’t give your strengths away. Act weak, to put it simply. Once you reach the flag, go full out.”

Y/N’s sword clashed with another and she pushed the girl back, causing her to stumble. Chris disarmed the captain of the squad and she reluctantly gave up due to the sword being held at her throat.

The game felt like hours to Y/N. Every turn they took proved a new challenge. Y/N had opted to hiding behind trees to save her energy, something she wasn’t proud of but Annabeth had full faith in her. She didn’t want to let the poor girl down.

“No sign of Clarisse.” Chris said, expecting the curly-haired girl to jump out with her spear. But she didn’t, only confusing the blue team more. “She usually hunts here for the first two hours or so.”

Y/N licked her dry lips. She was at the back of the group but when she spoke, everybody turned in unison to look at her with hawk-like eyes. “They most likely changed their tactic too.” She said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“So if she’s not here,” Chris mumbled.

Y/N nodded, finishing his sentence. “Then she’s going for our flag.”

Luke, on the other hand, wasn’t having nearly as much fun as Y/N. He groaned as he circled aimlessly around the flag he was forced to guard. He knew Annabeth was lurking around somewhere with that invisible cap of hers.

A twig snapped, earning Luke’s attention. His head snapped towards the sound. The forest seemed to grow quiet; the birds stopped chirping and the wind that had been howling in his air for the last hour floated away. He furrowed his brows, taking a careful step forward.

There was another snap. Luke called out to nobody in particular as he adjusted his grasp on his sword. When nothing happened, he turned back to the flag only to see that it was gone from its position perched on the rocks.

Luke ran forward, reaching out a hand to grab Clarisse’s shirt. His fingers barely wrapped around the fabric but she pushed forward and Luke lost his grip “Shit!” He yelled as he watched Clarisse run off with the flag. He angrily kicked a rock, knocking it into a nearby tree.

“Luke, what’s wrong?” Annabeth walked into the clearing, removing the hat her mother gave her.

“Clarisse has the flag.” Luke seethed, clenching his jaw. Embarrassingly enough, she stole it from right under his nose. Another one of their teammates crashed through the bushes, loudly panting and wheezing.

“Y/N has the red flag!” They exclaimed. Luke and Annabeth exchanged a look, knowing that they could still win this game if Y/N moved quick enough.

The said H/C-haired girl sprinted through the vegetation, gritting her teeth as she willed her legs to move faster. Vines and stray branches slapped her in the face, cutting her cheeks and grazing her sun-deprived skin.

The armour was slowly her down and she quickly removed her helmet, letting it crash to the ground. Her sword and shield was next. She could hear the blue team cheering in the distance as she ran, her lungs burning and her ears ringing from pushing her body past its limit.

She spotted Clarisse up ahead, also holding a flag. It was a race to see who could get to the border first. Y/N wildly panted as she approached the safe zone, not daring to slow down. She could see the fury in Clarisse’s eyes as Y/N impulsively jumped over the border in a last desperate attempt, not thinking much of it.

She hit the ground harshly, rolling and hitting a few rocks. She hard Clarisse scream in frustration, throwing the blue flag to the floor in anger.

Y/N’s teammates helped her to her feet, slapping her on the back and loudly congratulating her. But an Ares boy wasn’t as happy with Y/N’s win as her team was.

He blindly slashed his dagger at her, aiming for her face but Y/N quickly moved. The dagger cut her arm instead, splattering blood everywhere. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Y/N screamed, grabbing the boy’s dagger and tossing it at his shield. The metal loudly clattered against each other, causing the campers around her to flinch. “You almost slashed my face!”

“It’s not like it was worth anything anyway.” The arrogant Ares boy brushed her anger off. Y/N scoffed, taking a step towards him.

“The whole point of this stupid game is that it’s a mock fight. It’s pretend. You don’t have to actually try and slice someone in half.”

“It’s not just a stupid game.”

“You almost killed me over a game that requires you to capture a flag. So yeah, I’d say it’s stupid. And idiotic.”

He swiftly punched her. Y/N was knocked back by the force. She gasped in disbelief, feeling thick blood trail down her chin. “Are you insane, or something?!” She exclaimed, standing up. “Mentally impaired? Mentally challenged? Psychotic perhaps? The game is over, so stop trying to fucking kill me!” Her voice increased in volume the more she spoke. She could feel tendrils of rage slither up her body, wrapping around her and refusing to let go.

“You Ares kids are just like your father! Always so overconfident and obsessed with glory!”

“Like you’re any better! You have Hades as your father.” He tauntingly shoved her, “You didn’t exactly win the lottery either. At least I have siblings, you spoiled only child! The guys were right. You are pretty but you’re also a bitch. I’m surprised Luke tolerates you.”

Suddenly Y/N’s armour was melting. Thick droplets of metal pelted to the floor to join the small puddles of blood and the other campers stepped back when they spotted a small group of flames dancing across the grass.

Only, the fire wasn’t pink or blue or red this time. It was black.

“Oh, shit.” An Athena girl muttered, stumbling backwards. She grabbed another Hermes boy, clutching onto his arm. “Get Luke. Go find Luke!” She tried to calm Y/N down but nothing was working. If anything, it only made things worse.

“I don’t get why everybody’s so scared of you.” The Ares boy continued to taunt her. He circled around her, waving his sword as he laughed. “You aren’t even that strong. I’ve never even seen you play capture the flag. Is it because you’re scared you’ll ruin your nails? Or are you secretly weak?”

“Shut up.” Y/N muttered, glaring at him. It was no secret that Hades had a temper that rivalled Ares’. Unfortunately, Y/N inherited it.

“I bet daddy doesn’t even like you. You probably annoy him. I mean, you don’t fit here either. You should join your dad in hell. That’s where you belong.”

“And you belong in the infirmary with a broken neck.” Y/N snapped. The flames below her crackled, reaching out for anything to burn. You could practically see the heat rise from the fire and another Ares kid yelped in pain when the flames’ heat ate away at her leg, almost melting her flesh and creating a sizzling sound. But she was a meter away from the fire.

“Don’t get too close.” Clarisse warned anybody who tried to interfere. “It’s too hot.” The fire was slowly making a circle around Y/N and the boy, whose name Y/N finally remembered was Jordon.

Luke barged past the trees, quickly walking towards Y/N with large, meaningful steps. The flames made a path for him, like snakes that knew not to harm him.

“What the fuck, man?” Luke harshly gripped Jordon by the front of his shirt.

“Oh, her boyfriend’s come to rescue her. Hooray.”

“Shut your mouth.” Luke grumbled, dropping Jordon and scoffing. “Blaze, let’s go. Get your nose and arm patched up.” He wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulder, leading her away from the growing crowd.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, asshole.” Jordon sneered, “You’re getting soft, Luke. And for what? A little slut whose only achievement is having Hades as a father? She’s probably a crack whore too.”

Y/N’s temper finally snapped.

She whipped around, ignoring Luke’s warning. She drove her hardened fist into Jordon’s face. “That’s for calling Luke an asshole.” She muttered, grabbing onto the sides of head and slamming his nose into her knee. “That’s for calling me derogatory names.” She finally kicked him between the legs. Everybody watching winced in pain as Jordon fell to his knees. “And that’s for punching me, shit face!”

Her flames exploded once more, causing another cluster of panic. Luke quickly took action, grabbing Y/N by her shoulders and spinning her around. He knew words wouldn’t be enough to distract her so he did the only thing he could think of. He kissed her.

It was a stupid idea but her flames grew gentle once more, morphing from black to pink. The kiss was a quick one as Luke pulled back, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. But Y/N grabbed him by his necklace and pulled his forward, kissing him once more.

Chris whistled loudly from the sidelines, “Ay! Get it, man!”

Y/N’s lips tasted like metal and Luke realised he should’ve cleaned the blood off her face before kissing her. The red liquid stained his skin when he pulled away for the second time, gazing at Y/N with a vicious urge to kiss her until her lips bled. Unfortunately, Chiron arrived before Luke could sneak Y/N off.

“What’s going on here?” Chiron looked at Y/N’s injured face then at Jordon who was picking up his bloody dagger with a bruised hand. Finally, Chiron’s eyes landed on Luke’s face. Blood trailed from his mouth and smeared around his cheeks. Without context, he looked like he had just devoured somebody.

“Sir, Jordon cut Y/N’s arm, though he was aiming for her face, and punched her even after the game ended. Then he started calling her names. And uh, Luke calmed her down… somehow.” Someone from the blue team piped up, earning a glare from Jordon.

“I think it’s very obvious what Luke did to calm her. You three, see me after Y/N is treated.” Chiron demanded. Luke led her away, teasingly grinning.

“So, you wanna talk about what just happened?” He asked. Y/N scoffed, pulling him behind the Hermes cabin. His back was pressed harshly against the wood as Y/N clenched her jaw.

“You are infuriating, Luke.” She poked his chest, “And annoying. And obnoxious. And you are practically the bane of my existence… so why do I want to kiss you so bad?”

After processing her words, Luke didn’t waste a second in pulling her closer towards him. Y/N kissed him back with all her pent-up anger, frustration, and hatred towards nobody in particular and Luke welcomed her rough approach.

“Let’s get your nose and arm fixed up.” Luke uttered, not wanting to ignore Y/N’s injuries. She reluctantly followed him into the infirmary and sat down on a nearby bed. “So, was my calming technique good?” He teased.

Y/N shrugged. “It was alright.” She spoke with a joking tone and Luke grinned as her hair flared pink again. He loved watching those brightly-coloured flames, especially when he was the cause of them.

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homebody-nobody · 4 years

Text

touch me someone

HIIIII it’s your favorite fic writer back from the dead with TWO whole fics real close together maybe I’ll finally become a consistent publisher?!? we can dream. Anyway. JJ and Kiara are my new Bellamy and Clarke I guess so enjoy this VERY angsty smutty hurt/comforty poetic nonsense the idea for which would not leave my brain til I wrote it. Please for the love of god read this bc I actually kind of love it and need validation or concrit or literally any feedback at all bc my none of my irl friends like this show so pls interact/comment

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ao3

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He pulls away from her, and his eyes are wide but dry as his chest heaves. He looks wild, uncaged and raw, the moonlight turning his blond hair white and his blue eyes into pools of silver. Tragedy and shock have destroyed him, the chains he’d wrapped around his brash, heedless, unending want twisted into shards by an explosion of hurt and grief. He has always been the victim, the boy left behind in empty rooms with nothing but loss and bloody fragments, told to piece himself back together. Finally, they’ve taken the last thing. When he told John B they had nothing to lose, they still had each other. And now, he doesn’t even have that.

But she’s still here.

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Touch me someone

I’m too young to feel so

numb, numb, numb, numb

You could be the one to

Make me feel somethin, somethin.

The Phantom went down around 8:30 PM. Or maybe 10:30. Kiara doesn’t remember. She only knows that the hours between then and now have felt like a lifetime and also no time at all. Like she’ll turn and John B will be there, behind her shoulder, laughing at something JJ said, Sarah hanging off his arm; but also like the world is dark and will be dark and has been dark forever. Like the sun will never rise after this. Like the storm took the light and heat from the world just like it took her best friend.

Later, she’ll learn that John B’s official time of death is listed as 8:34 PM, when they stopped trying to establish radio contact with him and Sarah. Later, she’ll watch news stories about the manhunt for Rafe Cameron and the scandal of Ward Cameron’s property being left to his second wife, rather than his remaining daughter. Later, she’ll get an email from an internet cafe in Bermuda and her whole world will flip upside down one more time.

But now, she is laying in her four-poster bed, watching the ceiling fan lazily trawl the same, tired circle, listening to the pull-chain tap not-quite-silently against the glass fixture. Now, her hair still damp from the shower that her mother made her take, eyes stinging from sharp wind and tears not yet shed, the inside of her mouth shredded and sore from the hours she spent chewing on her lips, the world is too quiet, too peaceful. The crickets outside sing soft and gentle, just like they have every night her whole life, and the texture of her comforter, the quiet harmony of the night, the soft click and whoosh of the fan -- it all feels so chokingly familiar, like spiralling back down to earth after spending weeks dipping in and out of orbit.

She wants to scream until her throat is raw, sob and fight and unleash herself on every single adult that hurt John B, that brushed him off or refused to help or wouldn’t listen to him. She wants to gut Ward Cameron for ripping everything away from John B, first his father, and then the gold that was his by right. The gold that was theirs. She wants to rip off Rafe’s skin piece by piece until he’s in shreds at her feet. She wants to eviscerate his father with the same gaff hook he used to rip apart those two mainlanders and ruin John B’s life. She’s so full of hurt and grief and anger that her fists keep clenching white-knuckled in her blankets and she wants to bring down the sky itself. But at the same time, she’s haunted by that same emptiness that followed her after Sarah’s childish betrayal, like she’s watching it all from the outside.

She can’t sleep. She won’t. Sleep is just an escape, a place to forget, and she’ll have to wake up and remember what happened all over again, remember the rush of hope and the hours of adrenaline and apprehension that ended in a tragedy none of them could have ever predicted. What child foretells death?

Rolling over, she presses her face into her pillow, smothering herself until her lungs force her to turn her head for air. She opens her eyes, no less heavier than they were hours ago. Her throat tightens like tears are about to well up, to spill over and stain her sheets, but they don’t come. Itchy and claustrophobic, she throws back the sheets and paces over the smooth boards of her room, bare feet making soft noises over the lacquered wood. She has to get out, to make sure that she didn’t dream up the whole goddamn thing.

She dresses quickly, throwing on denim cutoffs and an old drug rug that cycled its way through at least two of the boys’ wardrobes before landing in hers. She doesn’t know where she’s going, doesn’t know what she needs, but she throws her wallet, her charger, a flashlight, and her water bottle in her beat up backpack, and, on second thought, a toothbrush and some deodorant. She picks up her keds and tiptoes down the stairs, avoiding the creaky eighth stair.

The key rack is empty, and, chastising herself for believing her parents would leave the car keys out after everything she’d pulled in the last few days, she rocks on her heels, assessing her options. The most prudent one is probably just to go back to bed, given the usual risks of going out at night as a teenage girl, the massive punishment that looms in her future, and, now, the lack of a vehicle. But the thought of returning to her stale room, skin crawling and mind racing at a standstill, makes the decision for her. She slips out the back door, making sure to catch the screen door before it slams, and digs out her bike from next to the garage. The tires could use air and the gears are misaligned, but it still rides, and it’ll get her… somewhere else.

Her original intention is to go to Pope’s house, mostly because it’s closest, but then she thinks about how she kissed him earlier that afternoon -- and God, was that just this afternoon? There’d be implications, now. Showing up in the middle of the night, throwing pebbles at his window -- it would mean something. So she stands up on the pedals and pushes past his street, floating like jetsam through the night.

She ends up heading for the chateau, which is where she was going all along. After her family moved to the outskirts of figure eight just before high school, it was the only place that felt like home anymore. She cruises deep into the cut, where even the smell of the air changes, from freshly mowed grass and chlorinated in-ground pools to gasoline and oil, rotting seaweed and the salt marsh.

The little house sits in the reeds, ramshackle and welcoming as ever, tired and reaching under the moon. It’s empty and forlorn, alone on the edge of the edge, out past the main cluster of the cut, pushed past the tideline, separated from the rest of the flotsam by a freak wave. The Routledge boys never fit in, even with the outcasts, and they made their home like they knew it. Skidding to a stop in the gravel driveway, the sting of tiny rocks against her bare ankles is the only thing she’s really felt in hours. Her heart picks up, skipping over itself as her memory stumbles over all the years seeping out of the wind-weathered boards and the sinking foundation.

Again, it feels like this would be a moment for tears, like the sight of John B’s house, the memory of Big John’s booming laugh and all the bonfire-scented nights on that sagging porch should mean enough to make something in her crack, to finally shatter the glass walls of shock and let the grief come pouring in. But it doesn’t. She just stares up at the chateau, one part of her aching for the ease of a found family she’ll never get back, the other dreading the fate of the little house.

The breeze changes directions as she stares up at the rickety shutters and holey screens, bringing with it the tinny sound of music played out of a cell phone in a solo cup, a noise she knows well. Her stomach drops to the hard-packed dirt, crashing there with her bicycle and sending up a cloud of dust. Maybe John B survived. Maybe he made it back to shore, and he’s laying low, doing that stupid, chivalrous thing he does, trying to protect them by not letting them know. Maybe he’s out by the shed in that old metal lawn chair, Sarah in his lap, exhausted and defeated and alive. But as she gets closer, the moonlight glints off tawny waves crusted with sweat and salt, and the momentary, wild hope crashes and ebbs away from the shore.

JJ hears her, of course, sitting up in the hammock and turning toward the sound of her flat-soled sneakers slapping the dirt. “Hey,” he says, his expressive face, for once, inscrutable.

“Hey,” she says, slightly out of breath from the sprint. “I thought you were…” she trails off, because he knows. Because he’s the only one in the whole world who can look at her and understand the cathedral dreams and vaulted memories crashing down in her chest.

“I’m not,” he says, an answer that belies more than either of them knows. JJ gets this look, when he’s seconds away from doing something particularly concerning (and usually criminal). Manic energy lights up in his blue eyes, burning anywhere from mischief to stubborn determination to full-tilt rage. The well-developed muscles in his shoulders and arms refuse to relax, and his hands get so fidgety they lose the coordination it takes to flip the zippo lighter between long, practiced fingers. His face fights with itself, half already spitting with well-steeped anger, the other tired, and broken, and grieving.

“I noticed,” she responds. She drops her bag on one of the metal folding chairs, dooming it to a coating of flaky, faded paint. Crossing the grass, hoping her broad strides will disguise the rattling breath in her chest, the shake in her hands, she moves to sit next to him in the hammock, and he shifts his weight to allow her.

There’s no verbal communication, no squabble about personal space or indignant demands she find her own seat. There never is, not with her boys. The Pogues. It seems so silly now, hiding behind that name for themselves, a name she’d never really belonged to, anyway. He’s holding a lit joint in one hand, a bottle dangling from the other, and he offers her one while swigging from the other. The old favorites of a Maybank in crisis. She takes it.

He falls back next to her, sending the hammock swinging as he gazes up at the stars. Sarah had known the most about constellations, of the five of them, but JJ knows a fair amount, too, some of the only memories of his mother the nights when she would hold him under the stars, tracing the designs across the sky, her hand wrapped around his tiny one. His eyes keep drifting off the sky and landing on Kiara, eyes distant, bathed in moonlight.

“He’s not dead,” JJ says, surprising himself as much as her. He sits up, and she follows. He stares at his feet for a while, and she thinks about putting her arms around him. “I --” he picks his head up to look at her and stops, voice stolen by the hope in her eyes. “I’d feel it,” he finishes lamely, and watches the spark die.

“The first stage of grief is denial,” she says, and it’s supposed to be at least slightly lighthearted, but it falls cruelly to the crabgrass.

“You sound like Pope,” he counters, and there’s too much weight to that name to throw it around for long. They’re both thinking of Kiara kissing him, and the memory is pleasant to neither.

She doesn’t really know why she did that. Maybe it’s because he’s everything she’s supposed to want, intelligence and ambition and ingenuity, everything she tells herself is important in a guy. Maybe because he’s in love with her. Maybe because she’s definitely in love with one of her best friends, and he’s the one who makes sense. She takes another hit and hands the blunt back to JJ.

“I’d know,” he repeats, and she knows it’s not her he’s trying to convince. He lays back in the hammock, putting the blunt between his lips and dragging deep before tilting his head back and blowing the smoke into the tumultuous night. She looks back over her shoulder, watching his jaw and the movement of his throat as he exhales. Laying back next to him, she tries not to think about the warmth of his skin against hers, the strength of the body pressed to her side. It’s only JJ, the same reckless, stupid asshole who carried that damn pistol everywhere all summer and has a talent for getting into trouble. He’s not giving her butterflies with his proximity, and she’s not thinking about reaching down and lacing her fingers through his.

Eventually, JJ flicks the roach into the darkness and stands as quickly as he can without tipping Kiara out of the hammock. She starts, not realizing she was dozing on his shoulder until it’s gone. “It’s late,” he says.

She stands as well, tucking her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt as he kicks at the dirt. “I don’t --” she starts, and the hesitation makes him stop his nervous movement, meeting her eyes. “I don’t want to go home.” He opens his mouth to say something, but she interrupts him. “I can’t go home.”

“Okay,” he says, after a second. He doesn’t want to be alone, either. She nods, and walks past him, picking up her bag. He follows her up to the house, and they stop at the foot of the stairs to the porch, staring at the buzzing light. JJ takes a stuttering inhale Kiara pretends not to hear, and he goes up the stairs first, wrapping a shaking hand the handle to the screen door. He pauses before going in, frozen, and it isn’t until she lays her hand on his shoulder that he summons the courage to push the door open.

They knew the place was going to be tossed, but it still hurts Kiara and kills JJ, to see the overturned table and scattered papers, the couch cushions scattered on the floor and the coffee table flipped. He tries to shuffle backwards, to run from the sharp, fresh grief and the deep, familiar ache of loss and violation, but Kie is in the way, and when he turns to escape she catches him, her arms around his shoulders, his clutched around her waist. “I can’t --” he chokes, his face pressed to her neck, “It’s not --” his breath speeds up, his shoulders shaking. “They --”

“I know,” she says, swallowing down tears, herself, in that same small voice from the night in the hot tub. She knew JJ was broken, on that deep, fundamental level that, intellectually, she could conceptualize, but she could never feel. But that night, seeing the bruises on his ribs, damning as fingerprints, the ghost of his pain, the whisper of breath knocked out and the brush of betrayal, turned her chest inside out. This feels the same way, watching him lose the last shred of some semblance of home to the same kind of mindless anger and selfish authority that claimed the first one. “I know.”

But she’s still here. “Kie…” he breathes. She opens her mouth to reassure him again, but then his hands are on her face and he’s kissing her, deep and rough and desperate. She bursts into flame underneath him, paralysis broken, stupefaction overcome, as the glass walls she’s been watching through crack and shatter at her feet. JJ’s hands wrap around the back of her neck and spread across the small of her back, pushing her up against the door, and she twists her hands into his shaggy, sun-streaked hair. Every desperate question is met with his touch, and she chases it, even as he pulls away in horrified shock.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, Kie, I’m so sorry --” He tries to shove himself away from her at the instant she curls her fists in his shirt, and it almost rips as she pulls and he slams back into her. Teeth clash and noses bump and it’s not perfect or soft or loving, but passion born from desperation and terror of what it would mean to stop. Putting his hands on the door on either side of her face, he pushes himself off of her, even as she tries to yank him back. “What are we doing?” he asks, in a voice that won’t like the answer.

“JJ,” she gasps, pushing her fingers back up to tangle in blond, salt-sticky waves. “Shut up.” Pulling his mouth back down on top of hers, she gasps into him as his hands come down and frame her ribs, one of his arms sliding around her waist and the other pushing back up into her hair.

“Don’t you think --” he tries, even as he leans over her, their breathing ragged, his knuckles white in her impossibly soft curls. His forehead is pushed to hers and he can’t pull away any farther, sucked into her gravitational field, helpless to it.

“I don’t want to think,” she insists. “I want this, I need this,” This momentary pause is already too long, and if he stops kissing her, stops touching her, the tears she’s been holding back will crash over her and they won’t stop. The dark room is loud with heavy breathing as she catches the scent of him, salt and sweat and smoke. “I need you.”

His grip falters and the momentary relaxation has her pressing herself against him. “Are you sure?” he asks, and this is a choice, now. This isn’t something that either of them can pawn off as a mistake made in the heat of a desperate moment. He wants this, has wanted it, ever since he met her, but he won’t be a decision half-made, won’t take advantage of vulnerability only to become a regret. He’s giving her a way out, knows her pragmatic nature and her anxious need for well-thought plans. He wants her to think, even if she’s desperate not to.

He’s right, when he almost never is, but she knows that if she waits too long or lets in the doubt that expects her, she will break. “JJ,” she gasps, “Please.” His name, she knows, he can’t resist, not when paired with urgent pleading, and in this way, she makes her choice. He surrenders to her.

They fall onto the creaky pullout, still set up from JJ’s most recent stay, not minding the sheets and blankets wrought asunder by the angry police search. He can’t let go of her, his hands pushing up her sweatshirt, dragging over her sides and up her thighs, tangling in her hair like he’s drinking her in with his touch, intoxicated with the smell of peach in her hair and the taste of sweat on her skin. Kiara lets herself get lost in him, ride the wave of desire pushing through her, moans and gasps when he hits the right spots and closes her eyes as he lifts her shirt over her head and attaches his lips to her neck, his hands finally coming up to cover her tits, and the long careful fingers she’d spent so many afternoons watching prove adept at twisting and pinching her nipples and leaving her begging for him.

She almost rips his t-shirt off, pulling his bare chest against her own and letting the feeling of skin on skin light her up, setting fireworks off behind her eyelids. Wrapping one hand around the arm holding him up, she can feel his teeth on her neck, and she knows he’s leaving marks, and, for once, it doesn’t feel like she’s being claimed. She knows what it is -- proof this is happening, that they’re alive and feeling and crashing together again and again. She sinks her nails into his bicep as his fingers skim below the waistband of her shorts, and feels him smirk against her lips.

“Yeah?” he asks, and the teasing in his voice is tortuous and reminiscent of his old, humorous self, just enough to make her sad for a moment, and when she nods quickly in return, it’s a bid to forget that sadness. His fingers flick open the button of her shorts and as his fingers dip lower, the only thing she can think about, the only thing she can feel, is his touch, his all-consuming presence, radiating heat. The bastard takes his time, her only gratification the press of him against her hip, hot and hard. He teases her through her underwear, and she can’t say she doesn’t enjoy it, arcing into his touch, shocks of pleasure building in incredible anticipation, but he’s going too slow, and he’s wearing too many clothes, still, and the intense want gnawing at her has too much potential to turn into grief.

“Would you just --” she grunts against his mouth, cut off on a moan as he presses his fingers against her clit. “Fucking -- ah,” he works slow, hard, circles, enjoying himself as she tries to form sentences with his hands on her. “Fuck me already!” Because even this can’t be easy, not between the two of them. Because she’ll always be fighting with him, even with her bare chest pressed against his and his hand down her pants.

JJ grins, scraping his teeth over her ear. “What,” he says, still teasing, still bittersweet, as he finally pushes his hand into her underwear, “aren’t you enjoying this?” Slowly, much too slowly, his fingers part the lips of her cunt, pressing down over her clit before finding the wetness further down. JJ practically growls as his middle finger dips between her folds and he finds her soaked, dropping his forehead against the forearm braced above her head. “Fuck, Kie,” he moans, and he can’t disguise the wasted crack in his voice. “God, you’re so fucking wet.” He’s already drunk on her, every new sensation dragging him deeper.

“Your fault,” she stutters as he puts his hands, lean and strong and practiced, to good use, dragging slick fingertips back up to her clit and teasing small circles, rough, calloused skin creating delicious friction. And this -- this is what she was so desperate for, to feel only his touch and the way he pushes her higher, closer to an edge far away from the bleak grief of their every day world. He moans, too, as he dips his middle finger into her and she keens into his mouth, and she’s not thinking anymore, only chasing heat and skin and pleasure, the rest of the night foggy and distant, moonlit and blurred.

She doesn’t even know how much time passes before he’s kissing his way down her body, only that he’s fucked her so well with his hands he has three fingers inside her and she’s asking for more. He pulls his hand away and she lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched noise at the loss of contact, only to end on a gasp when she opens her eyes to see that he has his fingers curled around the waistband of her shorts and his face is hovering near her hips, pupils blown wide as he looks up at her. He asks her something, but blood rushes in her ears as her heart pounds and her chest heaves and it isn’t until his tongue darts out to wet his lips that she realizes what he’s saying.

“Fuck, yes, please,” she whines, and it feels like less than instant before her shorts are on the floor and his head is between her legs, his tongue on her clit, and she screams, pushing her hands into his hair as his mouth launches her higher and keeps her there, wave upon wave crashing over her until her legs are shaking, and when she feels the pull deep in her stomach and he takes half a second to breathe, she has enough presence of mind to yank him back up, slamming his lips down onto hers, tasting herself there.

“Inside me,” she gasps, ragged and raw and scraping. “Now.”

“But you haven’t --” he breathes, and she reaches down, shoving past the waistband of the shorts he’s still wearing, her hand on his cock stopping him dead.

“Now,” she repeats. And then, leans up to kiss him, slightly softer than before, as if in apology for being so rough, but more as a distraction as her hands unbutton his shorts and shove them down his thighs, her hands finding him again and stroking his cock until he’s gasping into her mouth. “Unless,” she says between short kisses, trying to keep her tone light, even as her cunt aches for him. “You changed your mind?”

He scrambles out of his shorts and boxers so fast it’s almost funny, but the laugh falls out of her chest as he braces his forearms on either side of her face, pushing her hair back from her forehead and looking at her so carefully it almost hurts. “I don’t have a condom,” he says, uncharacteristic worry trembling in his voice.

“I’m clean,” she says, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair once more, to ground her, and disguise their shaking. “You?”

He nods. “What about --”

“I have an IUD,” she says, more grateful than ever for her liberal mother and her own presence of mind.

He licks his lips again, eyes dropping to her mouth before flicking back up to her eyes. “Last chance,” he says, like she’s going to change her mind and push him off of her, run off into the night and leave him here, disgraced and embarrassed. “Still sure?” he asks, like he’s expecting her to say no. She nods without hesitation, caught in his blue eyes, turned cobalt in the half-light. He kisses her one more time, and it’s laden with years of things he hasn’t said, and she surges up with urgency, not ready for the tenderness in his touch. JJ tries to slow her down again, to revel in the moment of bare skin and vulnerability, no matter how guarded it may be, but she reaches down, wrapping her hand around his dick, guiding him closer to her, and he’s falling into her touch, into her orbit, helpless.

She draws him inside her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder with a forsaken, heavy breath. It’s too soft, this moment before he moves, too easy to break, every sense on fire. The air is too close to her skin, too tight around her arms, like she could rip the fabric of it with the barest movement. She wants to be lost in him again, to feel separate, far away and floating above herself, not so torturously in her body, JJ trembling and present above her. “JJ,” she says, opening her eyes to find his, a split-second mistake, the next word hitching on its way out of her chest. “Move.”

He does, mercifully lowering his face to press against her neck, the eye contact too substantial, too burdensome to hold. The bubble surrounding them expands as he works her up to that blissful edge with ease, his mouth letting out a stream of filthy words about how good she feels surrounding him. Closing her eyes, she tilts her head back, letting her hands have free reign over his back, his shoulders, his arms and up into his hair, every place she wants to touch him when she watches his ridiculous muscles ripple under his young, tan skin. He shifts his weight, hooking her knee over his hip so his cock hits exactly the right spot with every thrust, and she cries out, racing higher.

She should have expected that JJ likes to run his mouth -- she only catches parts of what he’s saying, things like ‘so fucking hot’ and ‘sound so fucking good’ and ‘so fucking wet for me’ and as her moans increase in pitch and volume, he growls “c’mon, Kie, cum for me,” and she falls apart. He fucks her through the aftermath and she barely knows what noises are coming out of her mouth, her nails digging angry welts in his back. Just when she thinks she can’t take anymore, he tenses and spills inside her on a half-broken sigh.

Her vision sharpens as he rolls off of her, collapsing on the squeaky bedsprings, and the house is too quiet all of a sudden, the air once again too close. Her breath slows, the sweat cooling on her skin in the soft breeze pushing through the wooden walls, the still-open front door. Neither of them says anything, and Kiara can feel him looking at her, his blown out smile too loud in the fallout. She sits up, almost flinching at the light touch of his fingers on his spine when he picks up a strand of her hair. “I’m gonna pee,” she says, finding her underwear and pulling them on, and then, after half a moment, pulling his discarded t-shirt over her head.

Her head echoes as she steps over the scattered mess to get to the bathroom, like she’s walking through a tunnel. Her legs ache and tremble, and she wraps her arms around herself, numb and falling. She fights tears as she washes her hands. The bathroom is, as always, a deplorable mess, products everywhere and hair all over the sink. Her green bikini top is still on the floor from when she’d forgotten it just the other day, and that girl feels impossibly far from the one staring at herself in the mirror, wearing her best friend’s shirt while he’s naked in the next room. There’d be shame, and guilt, too, if the smell of John B’s deodorant didn’t choke her with overwhelming loss. Bracing her hands on either side of the sink, she can’t hold it back anymore, and sobs spill out of her, harsh and echoing in the small space.

JJ is behind her an instant, half-dressed in basketball shorts and drawing her into his arms, tucking her close to him, her tears hot on his skin. “He’s gone,” she whimpers. “He’s really gone.” He doesn’t say anything, just guides her back to the pullout and straightens the blankets enough for her to fall in. She curls up on her side, crying so hard she can’t breathe, and he climbs in across from her, pushing one arm under her neck and using the other to pull her against him, his lips pressed to her forehead.

Tears leak out of his own eyes, silent and soft to her earth-shattering grief. “It’s gonna be okay,” he reassures her, fighting the quiver in his own voice, his chin shaking with the effort of it. He stares into the empty darkness above her head, every jerk of her prone body another crack in his breaking heart. “He’s coming back,” he says, more to himself than her. “He’s coming back to us.”

When she finally quiets down, the betrayal of dawn is beginning to lighten the sky, the moon fading, and the idea of this night being over feels impossible. For a short while, they breathe each other in, her forehead pressed to his collarbones, his hand trailing up and down her spine. Her head aches and her eyelids fall heavy over gritty, exhausted eyes, but she still fights sleep, stubbornly resisting another day, the beginning of a life without John B and Sarah. “I can’t stay here,” she says, finally, pushing back from him. “I should go home.”

He reaches up to catch her chin as she watches her hands curled close to his chest, reluctant to go. “Kie,” he murmurs, lifting her gaze to meet his. He moves forward to kiss her, and she flattens her palms against his skin, stopping him even as her eyes fall to his lips.

“JJ,” she says, an exhale more than his name. “We -- I mean, I --”

“Shit,” he sighs, and it almost sounds like a laugh, formed from expectations he wished hadn’t come true. “Okay.” His eyes flutter close, and she watches him draw back into himself, close all the doors, like he wants to turn off the lights and pretend he’s not even here. But then, he looks at her again, gently smoothing a curl behind her ear. “It’s just --” he starts, and inhales again, wetting his lips as he struggles to keep his eyes on her deep brown ones. “Can we go back to normal tomorrow?” Her eyebrows push together a fraction of an inch, and he focuses on the wrinkle there, a thousand times easier than holding her gaze. “Please,” he says when she inhales to say something. “I don’t want to be alone.”

It’s the first time either of them have been completely honest all night, and the most he’s said in hours. “Yeah,” she says, agreeing without thinking. Making it about him instead of admitting to herself that she wants to stay, that she doesn’t want to be alone either. “Yeah, okay.” She allows herself to be kissed, to be held and kept softly. JJ twists his fingers in her curls, skims his lips over her hairline before pressing his forehead against hers.

He tucks his hand against the side of her neck, his fingers spanning from her ear to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright,” he promises, and they both pretend he’s saying it to her. She’s seen JJ cheerful and stubborn, breaking and angry, seen him a thousand different ways. But never like this, kind and soft, quiet in the grey, grieving dawn. Eventually, she falls asleep under his touch and reassuring whispers.

The morning is just as sticky and unforgiving as every other that summer, and she wakes up damp and sticky with sweat. JJ is stretched out on his stomach, arms tucked under his head, mouth slack and hair falling over his eyes. Her head still hurts, and now so do her back and thighs, and she stretches her hand out across the rumpled sheets, tracing the red lines she’d left down his back. He blinks awake, closing his mouth and freezing when he feels her touch on his skin.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

“Hey,” he replies.

She waits for him to say something, but he just watches her, his clear blue eyes unflinching. She bites her lip. “I should get home,” she says, keeping her eyes on the knuckle tracing over his back, his gaze too heavy to hold.

“Yeah,” he says, “okay.” Neither of them move. The world waits on a hair trigger, and JJ’s more familiar with this kind of silence than she is. She wants him to break it first, to be the impulsive hothead he always is, to make the choice for both of them. But he doesn’t, and the moment crumbles, and she sits up and goes in search of her clothes.

He doesn’t say anything until she stoops to pick up her bag, sweatshirt in hand, ready to shove it into the biggest pocket. “Kie,” he says, and she stops dead, looking up at him. She doesn’t know what she wants him to say, but she deflates anyway when he just asks “my shirt?”

She’d forgotten she was wearing it. Pulling it off, she feels his hungry eyes trace up her bare chest as she untangles the drug rug before pulling it down and arranging it around her hips. She tosses him the shirt, and he holds her gaze as he flips it right side out and tugs it on. They stand on either side of the disheveled living room, daring the other person to say something, move, do anything first. He knows what he wants, what he can’t have, what he’s convinced himself he never will. She remembers the line she drew, the boundary she’d very clearly set. He chooses to respect it while she waits for him to break the rules.

Birds sing in the unflinching morning, and a breeze stirs the hair around her face. She slings her backpack over her shoulder. The sun blazes as gulls call and waves lap against the dock. He tilts his chin back, like he always does just before a fight. She turns to go.

#outer banks #jiara #jj x kiara #kiara x jj #kiara/jj #jj/kiara #outer banks fanfiction #jiara fanfic #jiara fic #jiara fanfiction #jiara smut #jiara angst #angst #smut #hurt/comfort #PLEASE interact with this I'm LITERALLY BEGGING YOU

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buniyaad · 4 years

Note

Hey, if you still take writing prompts requests, what do you think about number 48 or 87 for GreyGauche from BC? I think I'm really liking the dynamic of this ship especially with the recent events in manga but you can always do them in a platonic light!

GreyGauche vibes ft. Gordon coming right up! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

---

“I can't just forget you. That's not how it works. You told me to grab the world with my own two hands, didn't you? I did! It took years, but I did it, so no, I can't forget you. I won't...”

“Who are you talking to, Grey?” Gordon asked softly.

“Eeeeh!?”

Gordon frowned as the shorter woman collapsed in on herself and fell to the floor. She covered her face and sniffed pathetically into her palms. Gordon found an empty spot next to her shaking form, and plopped down.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Gordon felt better knowing that they were safe inside Henry's castle.

“I just can't forget him!” Grey sobbed into her hands again, and Gordon instinctively put one hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly.

“He's not gone,” he told her gravely. “He's alive, safe.”

Grey finally picked her head up and turned her watery gaze to Gordon's demure form. Gordon counted two, greyish blue eyes he didn't even know existed until recently – and they were steeped in agony.

He pulled the woman into a hug. Grey yelped before throwing her arms around Gordon and sobbing into his chest. He rubbed soothing circles into her back while she sniffled and mumbled into his shirt. He'd practiced this form of comfort while watching Vanessa and Noelle. Friends held each other when they were in agony, and Vanessa often let Noelle cry in her arms when the younger girl had just returned from a trip to the Silva estate.

Pain came in different forms, something Gordon knew very well. For himself, it was a mixture of social and emotional isolation. It was similar for Noelle, but Grey's was different. In the short time that she'd been open with showing her true form, Gordon found that Grey's pain was more like Luck's than anyone else's.

The physical scars of a life spent being beaten and pushed around always remained. Sure, there was magic and makeup, and even big clothes, but the chafed knees of a housemaid never disappeared, nor did the scars of a leather belt that were peppered generously across Luck's back. The first time Gordon got a good luck at Grey's hands, he noticed the tell-tale signs of lye burns. With the burned hands, the chafed knees he noticed during a swim in the river behind Henry's castle, and her stark refusal to be seen in public, he surmised that his friend was a maid treated so poorly that she barely had a spine to stand on. It was worse when Grey told her that she was a maid to her own family. Anger had coursed through Gordon's chest, but so had realization.

And Gordon understood – before he met Yami Sukehiro, he too was a spineless creature milling around his hometown, with no friends to remind him that his life, that his very existence was worth it. And so Gordon held her close, he held her close and let her cry because everyone had their own kind of pain, their own scars, and some of those scars came in the form of physical reminders, whereas others were cuts deeply ingrained into their psyche, and who was Gordon to judge? Grey was his friend, and his friend deserved empathy and sympathy, she deserved all the joy and wonders of this world.

She deserved to be happy.

“He's OK,” Gordon told her again with a soft smile. “He's safe. You saved him, remember? You healed him; he's alive, and he'll never forget us. He'll never forget you. He loves you too, Grey.”

Grey didn't bother denying her feelings. Perhaps being openly in love with people dumber than you was indeed the most human of practices. Noelle loved Asta, and Vanessa loved Yami, and now Grey – Grey loved Gauche.

“I love him,” she croaked finally. She picked her head up from Gordon's chest and finally calmed down. She sheepishly rubbed her nose while Gordon just smiled. So what if he looked dastardly when he smiled? He meant his smiles. They were for his friends, for the people he loved the most, and it didn't matter if others thought him inhuman and ugly, he was a Black Bull, and the Black Bulls were a family.

“I thought I lost him,” she said hopelessly. “That's twice now...”

“And there will be more,” Gordon promised her, “and every time, he'll come back to us – to you. It's the life we chose, remember? Every moment matters.”

Grey wobbled her head in a jerky nod. “I want him to look at me more!”

Gordon grabbed her jittery hands and looked into her face intently. “Then make him!”

Grey swiftly nodded yes, and Gordon followed. Before he knew it, she was back to blushing and sputtering, and it felt like peace on its own. She rambled about all the little things she loved about their one-eyed friend, and he mumbled back at her about all the times their one-eyed friend hid his blush from the other Black Bulls, and they kept trading words, feelings, and emotions as the rain and thunder subsided, and a stream of light entered through the lone window of the room.

“He's OK now,” Gordon told her again.

“He's OK now,” Grey repeated.

“What are you weirdos doing in my room?”

Gordon and Grey turned to Gauche's dripping wet form. He had a bag of groceries in one hand, and a Marie doll in the other. Gordon assumed the groceries were for Charmy, but Gauche would always put his Marie merch away before completing his household chores.

Gauche's lone eye twitched as a mirror rose to attack. “You have five seconds- OOMF!”

Gordon and Grey had jumped in unison, and before they knew it, Gauche was on the floor, his vegetables sprawled out, and his Marie doll somewhere in the corner. The youngest of the three tried to struggle out of their vice grip but failed spectacularly, and Gordon and Gauche both held onto him tightly and hugged. They hugged him and Grey cried and when Charmy and Luck walked in to see the commotion, they jumped into the cuddle pile while Gauche's soul left his body. Thankfully, Gordon was able to snatch it before it disappeared and stuffed it back into Gauche's mouth.

Later, when they were all seated at the table for dinner, Gordon smiled and nodded encouragingly to Grey. She nodded back, and with wobbly hands, served Gauche a helping of corn. Gordon inwardly cheered. Grey blushed. Gauche didn't bother saying thank you, but passed her the Worcestershire sauce she liked to dip her boiled eggs into.

Henry's castle hummed with love and good vibes, and Gordon watched as Grey tried her best, little by little, to be Gauche's hero.

And Gordon smiled, because that was his best friend, and he was proud of her.

#black clover #grey black clover #gauche adlai #gordon agrippa #greygauche #ava's ficcing adventures #real talk

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ziracona · 4 years

Note

Do you have any favorite drinks and foods headcanons for ilm?? I feel like Meg would like Shirley templess 👀

Hmmm for sure but there’s so many characters I don’t know how to comprehensively answer this, haha. Meg probably would enjoy that. I think she drinks sometimes for fun or bc it seemed like a good idea at the time, but actually prefers non-alcoholic, because it’s not that great to her, and also because you have to not take your adhd meds if you plan on drinking that day as they interact, and amphetamine > depressant lol. I think she enjoys fruity mixed non-alcoholic stuff a lot. Specially if it got that 👌 zest 👌 to it.

Meg is a huge nerd who likes most of her favorite foods for fan reasons. Her favorite food is chocolate chip cookies with blue chocolate chips because of Percy Jackson. Favorite drink she would probably say is coke, but in reality it’s probably some kind of non-alcoholic cocktail she wouldn’t think to name.

Jake has a proficient pallet from being rich and can actually tell a huge difference in food quality, but hates this and is determined not to be the spoiled rich shithead who only deins to eat from a plate prepared by someone who graduated prestigious culinary school at the top of their class. Has forced himself to acquire a taste for lean meats and nuts. Would request like salted cashews if Meg was getting snacks & she’d throw a fit bc mixed nuts isn’t a treat and he would be offended she was judging his pick. Secretly really appreciates diligently and artfully prepared food. Does not like lamb. He will hunt and there’s not much he feels bad about eating, but he saw a lamb going to get slaughtered as a kid and absolutely will not stomach that as food ever since. Would feel weak & has probably only mentioned it to Dwight, or maybe Claudette, bc she’d never judge or be mean, or maybe Quentin, Kate, or Adam, because Quentin & Kate would agree, and Adam is like, the chillest man ever.

Dwight likes sea salt and vinegar chips, beers, Pepsi, pretzels, steak, and (secretly) those frosted animal crackers. Gets shit constantly for his taste in food and drink. Just wants to be left alone. One time Claudette drank a beer with him to make him feel better bc everyone else was making fun of him for liking beer and she is sweetheart.

Claudette enjoys a dish her mom makes out of fried onions, squash, artichokes, and optionally also mushrooms, probably more than any other food in the world. It is really good. Favorite drink is sparkling grape juice. It makes her feel like she is drinking champagne, but it actually tasted good, and won’t get her drunk or hungover. Also likes tea a lot. Most green and white tea types especially.

Nea likes almost anything with a cronch when you bite into it. Enjoys fish too, and curry the way Min makes it (which is very rushed college student but like, rushed college student with standards). Really likes empanadas after being introduced to them. Also genuinely really loved both Claudette’s amaranth oatmeal and her realm cookies, and since she and Quentin kind of ‘grew up’ inside the realm, it’s also like, surreally and kind of heartbreakingly, a nostalgic and comforting childhood memory to her. They remind her of times she was more okay as a teenager. :’-] Favorite drink is probably a kind of complicated cocktail that is very strong but also sweet and tangy, nursed for a long time. Or a sports drink if she’s on the go. (Lol her fave drink is just the alcoholic version of Meg’s).

Min likes anything spicy that is prepared well, but especially likes meat dishes. Girl wants her protein so she can kick ass. Really loves Ace’s cooking. Smell is 70% of taste. Spice it up, fam. Only knows how to cook 3 dishes on her own, but they’re a good 3. Doesn’t have a single fave. Although she does greatly enjoy just like, devouring a slab of meat if Anna cooks. It makes her feel like a powerful wild beast to just shred a flank with her teeth and she digs that. Fave drink is baijiu, although more in a competitive way because it’s alcoholic af & she can stomach it than actually for taste or pleasure. For taste she will just mooch off Nia & Ace, who both like fruity alcohol.

Ace likes a homemade bread recipe of his mother’s most (I think he and Frank are the only two with stated favorites in-fic?). Makes it a lot for the girls and for friends, and everyone likes it so this works out well. Enjoys martinis and any fruity alcohol, but is good about not actually getting drunk past lucidity. Also enjoys just really nice brands of various juice (mango is probably his favorite?)

Quentin likes his Dad’s pasta recipes probably most, but doesn’t have a favorite from among them. Also likes red velvet cake a lot because he only ever gets it on his birthday and it makes him happy. His mom died when he was really young and he pretty much doesn’t remember her, but one of the memories he still has is of her giving him birthday cake. It’s the time of year he always feels closest to her. Favorite drink is energy drinks because he’s stupid and likes to play god with his body and knock back adderall with shots of redbull. Didn’t like energy drinks so much before Freddy, and back then probably Coca-Cola or something was the fave, but now energy drinks are associated with comfort in his head, so he genuinely likes them. Also really likes M&Ms. Used to treat himself to a bag from the school vending machine if he had a shitty day, so they are also associated with comfort.

David likes chips (as in fries cut UK style/thick, not American chips). He is enlightened and sees the true value of all potato products as well, and honors them as such. Also is the enjoyable kind of person who genuinely & visibly appreciates most all good food. He likes beers too (you and Dwight, buddy) although he’s got better taste in them. His favorite drink is probably coffee though. He likes strong coffee, full body, with just a little bit of cream and sugar so it’s still bitter but has a pleasant edge to it. Not sure why that’s his favorite. He just really likes it.

Laurie likes strawberry milk. Would give that answer if asked for fave food or drink. If prompted further would consider, then suggest that as her drink, and some kind of really nice soup as her favorite—probably pumpkin. Will genuinely enjoy any gift of food someone picked out for her with some thought. Also loves Mac’n Cheese a lot, but would not admit to that to everyone because she’s kind of embarrassed that as many times as she’s had it in the past two years alone, her heart still sees a warm bowl and years for the good shit.

Kate likes fruit. Mangos, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, peaches, pears, pomegranates. Has the patience to eat a pomegranate too. Would just say “fruit” if asked. Loves to pick it fresh. Favorite drink is probably a smoothie, but she would insist that counts. What flavor would vary, but she leans towards blueberry or raspberry on default because she likes the colors.

Tapp likes Chinese food. Mostly this is because Chinese takeout was the nicest thing he could ever afford on the reg as a treat. However, he gets to eat real chow mein and mapo tofu (former made by Ace, the latter by Min—spicy mapo tofu being one of the 3 dishes she knows), and decides those are now his favorite food. Would not ask people to make that because it would be being a hassle, and he would think it wouldn’t matter and would be stupid & not worthwhile to request a dish when visiting a friend, but gets excited internally when they make that & gives sincere and generous compliments. Tried and failed super badly to learn how to make both, but Rachel Thomas (who didn’t know at all how to either but is great at teaching herself shit) helped him figure it out and now he makes them as often as he can without feeling like it will get old/annoy the people living with him. Favorite drink is whiskey but that’s for depression reasons. For genuine enjoyment, he likes probably just juice. Orange or pomegranate.

Adam shares Min’s enjoyment of spicy foods, but is really into trying new things and genuinely doesn’t have a favorite. If he had to pick, he’d probably say Bulla cake, because it is his favorite desert/treat. He really enjoys them & they are nostalgic to him. Good memories of his childhood. His uncle wasn’t always great at knowing what to say, but used to pack him one to take to school any time he knew Adam was stressed or intimidated by an exam or due project. Even if it went bad, he had a comfort reward for making it through. Always buys them when he’s somewhere he can. Favorite drink is tea. He likes a wide variety, but masala, jasmine, and ginger are some constant favorites. Would actually know, care about, and adhere to proper boiling/steeping times per tea type.

Jeff likes baked goods. He really enjoys the baking process itself a whole lot, especially if he has people he can cook for/share with. Definitely has created several original & very good bread recipes. Prefers bready goods to sweet ones. About the sweetest fave he has is basic scones (just bread/no nuts or fruit or filling. Slightly sweet bread with a little sugar on top, meant to be paired with jams etc when eaten). Likes those a lot. Favorite drink shifts from subtype to subtype, but is always one of his homemade craft beers. Also enjoys Dr. Pepper (ah I knew I was forgetting—both he & Joey also have some stated canon favorites. So does Susie).

Jane’s favorites are both things her dad makes. He has a really good ceviche recipe and a complicated secret recipe bean dip, and Jane likes snacking on those with a bowl of chips while chatting on the porch. Slow meal extends both fun of chat and fun of conversation. And her dad has a really good sense of spice use. She can make both well too, but is convinced they taste completely different when she does & distressed by this. Her dad insists they taste the same, but also always sympathetically packs her some time take home anyway. Her favorite drink is probably either coffee or wine, out of familiarity and comfort. She’s not very particular though. As a treat she enjoys moccacinos with a ton of whipped cream a whole lot though.

This was already super long so I’m gonna stop here, but I wood cry if I didn’t include at least Philip in what is now clearly just a survivor lineup. So honorary addition:

Philip likes anything really cold and refreshing. Prefers things with a little bite, so he would pick a cola or alcohol over a fruity drink. Not a big preference past that. Always touched and surprised any time a friend goes into a gas station pitstop and comes back with /any/ ice cold beverage for him, no matter how many times it happens. The gesture to him is very much genuine kindness instead of a friendly nothing. For food, he likes anything with enough substance to actually make him not hungry. So meat dishes are a big plus, as is nice bread. He doesn’t have a favorite meal-meal, probably, but there is a kind of cookie made entirely of egg whites and sugar, that is beaten and fluffy and sweet like a cloud and really delicious somehow despite having almost no substance. Philip had no knowledge of these, but Claudette made him some one morning she was feeling happy not too long after they both first went home to Montreal, and the meringue chocolate chip cookie variant she made was one of the best things he had ever eaten, and probably is his favorite food. They’re like little bites of the concept of sweetness without it being an overdose, and have a very unique and pleasing texture. With the chocolate added, it’s just right. 👌 And then also, of course, it was a gift welcoming to his new home, from the person who more or less is his new home. : )

#ask #anonymous #long post #im so sorry i forgot about the updates & made this on mobile so i physically cant add a read more TuT #dead by daylight #in living memory (fic)#in living memory #hope ya enjoyed! happy to do other buddy crew (Susie-Joey-Sally-Nancy-Benedict-Michael-etc) just thought the post might become fatal if it #got any longer haha #i have another ask i am excited to answer too but its 4am where i am so i am gonna do it tomorrow TuT #ilm spoilers

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