#I also kind picture them doing a Howl kind of thing with their feathers =o

[monsterfloofs]

Carroigne (Bird creature / plague doctor creature) He/They/It x Anonymous Reader (Sfw)

( An scp inspired story, I luff plague doctor creatures and took a stab at making one of my own! I hope you enjoy! :3c Tis Floofy writing hours again wheeeeee💖)

Your job had begun easy enough. Working as a janitor in a top secret facility. With a keyring of important items that consisted of your ID badge and multiple personnel keycards. Accessing just about any level required your ID, a keycard, a number of passwords, a retinal scan, and sometimes even a list of security questions to get into certain spaces. Within your time working for said non-disclosed facility, you have signed a folders worth of waivers, and disclaimers. Many personnel lived within the building while they weren’t on vacation and you were no exception. Your little home away from home space held folders bursting full of paperwork.

That was just from working a small janitorial job. You couldn’t imagine what kind of work loads the clinical lab coat wearing scientists had to deal with on a daily basis. Many things were kept on a need to know basis, and you were the last to know about a lot of things. Still, that didn’t exactly deter you from this job. The money and the roof over your head was convincing enough to have you keep updating the necessary forms you needed to have to stay at the facility.

You took your mop and cart of supplies past heavy steel doors with windows that looked in on an assortment of inhuman beings. The hallway's bright sterile lighting hurt your eyes when first entering the “dorms”. A few of the menagerie of creatures would press their faces against the glass, jaws working in an attempt to say something to you past the barrier.

"It's no place for sympathy," You had been briefed, "Many of these monsters would happily take the opportunity to tear you limb from limb."

You would recite those words in your head as you walked by the rows of containment units.

Yet as you look back now, that was the first mistake you ended up making.

Engaging.

Past the slithering forest of tendrils, gleaming eyes in shadowy corners, and aquatic creatures that floated suspended in the water, among them sat a humanoid shape at a simple table and chair. Something both strange yet familiar that sat out of place.

It was like looking at a Halloween decoration, an animatronic that sat amongst all the other oddities. It could have almost been laughable, back then. Like a prank someone had set up in the room and left for the other workers to stumble upon. The being was swathed in dark clothes, with black leather gloves, a victorian cloak, dark pants down to the knee-high boots with silver buckles. The outfit gave no hint at the skin underneath, even its face was adorned with a mask that obscured their visage. The mask itself resembles a plague doctor’s, with the long pointed beak, and dark glass where the eyes would be. The material was hard and better quality, than what you would find compared to the halloween costumes that mimicked the look. Black leather, with neat stitches that ran around the entirety of the mask. Metal rims inlaid around the round glass lenses.

You had stopped, to peer at the figure inside the room. It had sat so still, like a life sized doll. You were just about to move on, before one gloved hand raised up in a silent wave.

You had stood transfixed on the spot, eyebrows knitting together. You tilted your head, and the being on the other side of the glass mimicked you. The beaked mask resembled more and more like a wide glossy eyed bird. You shuddered, and backed away.

After that one day, whenever you traversed that corridor you could feel eyes watching you intently as you passed. Many times you couldn't help but to turn your head. Though you already knew who it was, typically they sat upon a chair. Hands clasped over a crossed knee. On one occasion you had jumped nearly out of your skin. Seeing the beaked figure inches away from the glass, a piece of paper pressed against the wall with its fingers.

"I have not seen you here before, are you new?" The letters scrawled in a spidery cursive. You felt chills creep up and down your spine, you looked around the deserted passageway, before giving a brief nod. With a flourish of their hand, they produced a fountain pen from their breast pocket. However, whatever spell that had kept you in place was dissolving. You had moved on while they had begun to write something. Taking nervous glances around you as you had sheepishly gone about your business.

The facility had many rules and regulations about the different creatures and anomalies that lay housed inside. After your shift you had sat cross-legged on your bed, flipping through the files you had the authorization to see. Chewing on your bottom lip as you ran your fingers through a thick stack of papers again and again.

Nothing.

There wasn’t any information on the so-called plague doctor. You could only guess that this particular being wasn’t one that was accessible for cleaning personnel. You unceremoniously dropped the stack of papers to the floor. Laying back in the small bed that took up half your living quarters.

You turned this way and that, laying with your hands clasped over your stomach, your eyes trained on the ceiling. This knowledge did very little to clear your conscience. While this being wasn’t one that you were briefed on, that didn’t indicate that they weren’t a threat. Your mind was an ocean of twisting thoughts, you had previously heard accounts of people spiraling into insanity just by hearing some of these strange creatures speak. Your knuckles balling into uneasy fists as you gripped your blanket.

Sleep was uneasy, with many rounds of jolting awake between dreaming. By morning you were exhausted, slumping forward out of bed to head out to the mess hall.

You were greeted by the sight of a bustling space. The clamorous cacophony of voices that were making small talk during breakfast making your head spin. It felt as though you were still dreaming. Grabbing a cup of coffee and a try, wading through the line until you found a seat.

“Unit 1779336 of the Janitorial department?”

You raised your head groggily, close to dozing only moments before, yet you stiffened to sit up straighter. Your eyes falling to the badges of a military uniform.

“Sir?”

“Hate to take you away from your breakfast so early in the morning, but you and I have some things that need to be discussed.”

You feel your chest tighten as you move to stand. The man in front of you stood with his hands clasped behind his back. A stocky man with a neat salt and pepper beard, and piercing green eyes.

You could feel curious gazes directed at you as you walked. You Hunched your shoulders defensively as you trailed behind the uniformed man. You were led down a series of corridors into a large circular office. The man’s wide shoulders slopped as he let out a heavy sigh. He settled down at his desk and tapped a folder on the polished table top.

“You’ve been requested for a promotion.” He said grimly. “This isn't a standard issue. . . but this is a special case.”

You nodded, as a weighty silence hung in the air. He took off his hat, running a hand through his slick backed hair.

“How much do you know about Caroigne?”

“P-pardon?” You inquired, the man’s expression turning stormy as his eyebrows wrinkled his brow.

“Caroigne, the so called “in-house doctor” as it likes to call itself,” He growls “That bastard seems to know an awful lot about you.”

“But I— Sir, I’ve never spoken to—“

His green eyes flashed, and your voice died in your throat. He pauses to take a tempering breath through his nose. Then he pushes the manilla folder towards you across the desk. You glance from him to the manilla, before nervously flipping it open.

In that same spidery hand, that you remember seeing on a scrap of paper, was written your full name. The one you had been sworn to relinquish while you were inside the facility, your age, your job, and a short synopsis of your medical records. There was a smaller footnote underneath the scrawl.

“This subject would be an ideal companion for me while I am enjoying my stay at your facilities.”

“Subject,” You mouth faintly, before staring up at the man, “Y-you’re j-joking. . . r-right?”

He crosses his arms, glowering at you, “Caroigne has refused to speak with all scientists and attendants. If they are willing to speak with you, then it’s a risk we’re willing to take. I will get you the necessary papers you need to have, and you will start in two days.”

Fragility hit you like a freight train, how easily replaceable you were if things were to go sour. The feeling of having the air punched from your lungs continued after you had taken your new briefing papers. The last words of wisdom he had threatened in a grave timber.

“Whatever you do, don’t talk about illnesses in front of it, don’t let it know there is anyone sick, or if you yourself feel ill. Not unless you want to be the new cadaver we have to drag from its room.”

You sat curled into a corner of your bedroom. Legs tucked into your chest as you stared numbly into space.

Those two days were days where you barely left your room. They were spent between reading over your assigned documents and sleeping. The times you did leave your dorm room, there were guards stationed outside of your door to discourage any plans of leaving. You had broken down and cried in the bathroom on that last night, the sleeve of your shirt between your teeth to muffle your sobs.

You stood between two soldiers carrying assault rifles. Your eyes blinked painfully from the tears you hadn’t been able to stop. Head pounding with an ache as you were led into an interrogation room. You entered alone, finding doctor Caroigne already sitting across the table.

“Well hello there~ How delightful that you and I finally get a chance to spea— Oh, oh dear you aren’t looking very well at all.”

You blink at the blurry figure in front of you. Compared to the other people you had encountered the past few days, this was a voice that was filled with what sounded like genuine worry. You swallowed hard, eyes turning to look at the papers in front of you, shuffling them nervously.

“I-I’m fine.” You breathed, “You are. . .”

“Doctor Caroigne dear, but you may just call me Caroigne. And I suppose you’ll want to know my pronouns, that is the new rage nowadays.” they chuckle benignly, “I don’t think I have ever had the pleasure of having any, many scientists in this facility call me a ‘he’ in any case. I truly don’t mind what you choose, but it’s best not to upset the other doctors in this facility. Between you and me, they are dreadfully foul tempered.”

A weak smile graces your lips before it disappears. “You seem to know your way around the staff.”

Caroigne folds their fingers together, tapping his thumbs against each other.

“You could consider me to be somewhat of a flexible individual. One does not simply settle into their surroundings without some difficulty. However, I am proud to say that I have managed quite well.”

You paused, frowning at the papers in your hands, you were going to have to be more direct with these questions. After a moment of hesitation you finally relented, “How. . . did you get my information?”

“Ah, I am assuming ‘they’ would like to know?”

Your eyes slowly moved from your papers to watch them.

Caroigne bobs their masked head in the direction of the dark one way viewing windows.

“I. . . I would also like to know.” You mused softly.

“Hm. . . “ A pause before they give a tsking noise, a tone between amusement and disappointment. “I can’t be giving away all my secrets.”

Your eyebrows furrow, “But,” He says, raising a finger, “I might be able to part with a few of them, for a small price, a token, if you will.”

“And that price would be. . .”

“Oh nothing taxing,” Caroigne huffs, “This,” He spreads his arms, “Is all that I require. It’s been so long since I have talked to someone. Truly talked to someone. Tis a breath of fresh air. As a beast of science myself, I do not mind the others, but all they want to do is batter me with questions, questions, questions. It is that, or I dare say isolation.”

You bobbed you head wordlessly, as the doctor took a breath and continued.

“Furthermore, I liked the look about you, curious, inquisitive, I like that.” They chuckle warmly, “I have a bit of a nose myself~” They joked as they tapped at the mask's beaked visage.

The first meeting was odd. The doctor was well mannered if not very chatty. They asked many questions about yourself, where you had grown up, your childhood. You spent a great deal of time stepping around its questions and asking ones of your own. It had felt stiff with politeness at first, but it had become more natural the longer you talked.

When you had been finally taken and led away, Caroigne impressed just how lovely it had been to chat. Wishing you well, and eager to speak again. Back in your room, you looked back at his case folder, picking up the single photo that was in your file. It was a picture of Caroigne hovering over a mutilated corpse and holding a pen and clipboard. Blood smattering the walls and floor, as the guard had tried to defend themselves. You shuddered, placing the photo back into the folder, the image facing down. It was proof to remember, that no matter how kindly this being seemed, they were dangerous.

You had to be careful.

And you were! For a time. It fell into a routine, a weekly dance the two of you had. You asked him questions and he asked you things as well. You talked about your work, and the folks you missed at home. Somewhere along the way, you could notice yourself changing, the way you talked to them. Less sterilely polite, and more heart. You would laugh at the jokes they had tossed your way, and you spoke more sincerity than you had expected.

Then one day, you messed up.

You hadn’t felt well that day. The beginning of a headache pulsed across your forehead. You settled down at the other side of the table. Cariogne had leaned forward, “And how are you my dear?”

It was just a simple slip up, an off-handed comment. One derived from familiarity and not caution.

“Oh, I’m doing alright, I just have a little bit of a headache.”

You could feel the room go deathly still, “A. . . headache you say?” The calm voice drifted behind the mask. The room fell into pin drop silence as you realized the mistake you just made. Then began a tapping, a sudden drumming of the doctors fingers against the table of the interrogation room. They sat unmoving except for those fingers. The rhythmic tone was the only thing that showed a sudden change in their mood. An almost strained kind of excitement, like a cat ready to pounce.

“What. . . kind of headache, tension? An oncoming migraine, perhaps?” Their voice was casual, off-handed even. But your eyes were transfixed on the four fingers of his right hand.

“T-tension,” You replied, flinching as your voice cracked. You could already feel your pulse begin to quicken as gooseflesh began to creep up your arms. With all the briefing you had done, and reading his file countless times. Going over the information just before you left for these visits, the simplest most easiest rule to remember.

“Ah.” His hand froze, before his hands steepled themselves together.

“I see,”

You nodded your head jerkily, looking away, your eyes scanned the sealed room.

“I see, I see,” He muses, his voice sounding much closer than before. “Our little visits must put a strain on you, I hadn’t realized that.”

You hadn’t seen him get up, and they had moved across the table to stand across from in a blink of an eye. You hadn’t even had a chance to pull away. He leaned down, almost hovering on top of you.

“I wish to impress this upon you, little fledgling, you truly have nothing to worry about.”

The gloved hand touches your chin, raising your head up to stare back at the mask.

You begin to blink back tears as you watch little dots of laser light blink all over his form.

He turns his head, not aware of the sudden change of atmosphere, examining your face until there is a bark from one of the guards behind you.

“Release them Carriogne, and we won’t have to use force,”

He turns his attention away from you finally, “. . . That is quite rude.” The doctor scoffed, “I had known there was someone listening in to our chats. Haven’t you chaps heard of privacy?” He retracts his hand and you can breathe again. Taking the distraction to push out your chair, hastily stepping backward until you reach the threshold. The guards in their heavily armored uniforms push past you to get a clearer aim.

“He’s out of his cuffs again,” One of the soldiers shouted back to the main guard.

“Well, of course I am,” The doctor quipped cheerfully, “I told you they don’t work. I don’t know why you keep trying to use them.”

“That’s enough humor for one day doctor,” Another of the security personnel grunted, tension coloring his voice, “Make a note that the silver handcuffs have no effect, we’ll have to try a different pair next time.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going, no need to cause a fuss.” The doctor huffs, his calm voice sounded only mildly harassed, due to the circumstances. He is jostled out of the interrogation room at gunpoint. He turns his head towards you, sounding apologetic.

“I’m so sorry my dear, for this abrupt change of plans. I also apologize for these men, the lot of them could do with a lesson in manners. . . I would see to it myself but I don’t suppose that would do me personally any favors. I shall see you anon, next week at the latest. If they allow me.”

You don’t respond, but rather watch him being led away. Your heart hammering in your throat, and only finding the energy to sob until you fell into a crumpled heap on your bed. You weren’t sure how close of a shave that could have been.

Due to the events of the last appointment, you were briefly taken off of doctor Caroigne’s appointed meetings. However, word leaked through the grapevine that the doctor hadn’t taken the news well. The whole right wing of the facility had gone on a code red lockdown as they had muscled his way past a squad of guards, sending one of them to the hospital with shattered ribs.

There were about three weeks of bated breath after the lockdown, when things were quiet and you hadn’t heard word of any one being reassigned to Caroigne. Then an envelope had been thrust into the small mail slot in your door, and your heart sank.

You had gone from being a nobody, happy to clean and do janitorial tasks. Avoiding high risk jobs, to now being an imperative piece in dealing with a high risk entity.

Bright lights beating down from above as you were acutely aware of your footsteps. Your breath sounded loud and unnatural in your ears. When the room came into view you saw Carroigne, no simple handcuffs with time, but a full body straight jacket, mingled with heavy metal chains that were also wrapped across their form.

“Y-y-you’ve been a bad birdie,” Your voice shook slightly as you whispered the words, sitting down at the table.

Caroigne’s chains shifted around them as they gave a bemused shrug, “Why, I would contest to this, but I fear, perhaps you are alright. Is the chap in the hospital doing alright? I could take a look at him,”

You shook your head, “He is alright, he is being looked after.”

“Hm.”

“. . . How can you be so calm about this?”

“Should I not be?” The strange masked face tilts, “Perhaps I also should not overlook the fact that I am held here against my will.”

You feel your expression falling. “I. . . I don’t think I can do this, I’m s-sorry.” You had begun to get up, signaling to the guards that you wanted to conclude the session.

“Wait— Mon cher-“

Caroigne must have moved too quickly for the guards' liking. As the door opened and two guards stepped inside the space weapons raised.

You glance back before your eyes go wide. An inhuman noise comes from behind you. You are roughly pushed behind the guards. You let out a strained noise as a clawed hand shoots forward, a wrenching of strained metal and tearing fabric. The hand itself was scaly and ribbed like a birds, past that the skin was dark with veiny irregular skin. Keloid bumps are peppered up the arm and a small smattering of feathers like a molting bird.

“Stop, stop, STOP!” You realize you were the one screaming, voice high and frantic trying to push past the guards. As they opened fire upon Carriogne, his stance hunkering down to shed the cloth to ribbons and toss it aside. The next moment you were alone, the two guards in the room and the others that were trying to rush inside, had been knocked over like a set of bowling pins. You reacted by freezing, covering your face with your hands as a shadow looms over you.

You could hear more inhuman noises above you, a clicking sound making your ears ring. You let out a shuddering breath of air, keeping your hands pressed tightly to your face. Like the mentality of a child afraid of what lurked in the dark, if I don’t look, it can’t see me or can’t hurt me.

The softness of a glove caressed your cheek. Your knees buckling as you are coaxed against a velvety form.

Worker Update

Worker ID Number: 1779336

Previous Position: Janitor

New Position as of September 8th 2021: Interrogatee of entity 275

Status: Employee Terminated

Reason: Unknown Disappearance

-

!: Emergency Update as of August 6th 2023

Disappearance of entity 275, site wide lock down initiated.

Entity was last seen with employee 1779336, recovery of both Entity 275 and 1779336 is in progress. Any sightings of either should be immediately reported to C. Ivan Willowicke, head of security.

[touchmycoat]

Hey I saw you were taking prompts for your Marco/ace/Sabo fics, could pretty please do one with omega/beta/alpha dynamics? Thank you I love you

Hello~! Thanks for the prompt love, but a/b/o is not my preference in writing :’) SO here, have a fucking RIDICULOUS, but actually-I’m-perfect-serious-about-this-I-did-Research-and-I-love-evolutionary-biology fic on one particular a/b/o trope.

MAS, Second Chances ‘verse, rated T for general allusions to sex & violence (but nothing explicit)

“Marco I’m about to ask you something awkward and maybe even a little offensive, and I need you to not get mad.”

“And by mad,” Sabo piped up, “he means embarrassed, because you’re about to be so embarrass— Ow.”

The scariest thing about this whole affair, Marco thought, was that Ace was clearly holding back laughter of his own, even as he elbowed Sabo in the stomach to shut Sabo up. And Sabo, when he unfolded from nursing the blow, was still grinning.

“Can I ask?” Ace said, kind of muffled as his mouth twisted into awkward I’m-totally-not-smiling shapes and his eyes danced. “I swear I won’t judge your an—”

Nobody elbowed anybody this time; Ace had cut off himself because, probably, he would’ve burst out laughing if he’d continued. Degrees of dread increased by tenfold, and Marco, because he was an experienced adult who practiced things like mental health, turned on his heel and walked away toward the afterdeck.

“—aw, c’mon Marco!”

“You really don’t wanna walk any further than that,” Sabo called, “if you don’t want your crewmates hearing us ask about your self-lubricating asshole—”

Marco has never truly regretted resuscitating Sabo in Ace’s life until now. Such a pity that Ace loved a guy that was about to die in 0.3 seconds when Marco’s talons snapped his fucking neck.

Sabo danced out of the way of Marco’s sudden charge, and then Ace got in the way. Marco never knew fire could burn in a way that so closely approximated a shit-eating grin. Haki flashed, because Marco was out for blood dammit, but the trouble twins were hardly an easy force to contend with. They have Marco bracketed in a second, each one ready to launch an offense the second the other needed to fly into a defense.

And they were both still fucking smiling—

“Marco don’t get mad!” Ace yelped as he tried to tackle Marco around the waist and Marco flipped them both into the sky. Ace would’ve been unceremoniously kicked into the ocean, had Sabo not taken the moment to hop up as well, wrapping himself in a very koala-like fashion around Marco’s torso to prevent any pivoting momentum.

“Yeah Marco don’t get mad,” Sabo repeated, and got a wing smack to the side of his head for his cheek. Also, for his fingers dipping under the back of Marco’s pants, as if aiming to touch—

Marco went full phoenix (which did not help his biological situation but that couldn’t be helped right now) and promptly dumped the two demon brothers onto the deck. Crew mates were vaguely looking on, but fights at this scale were hardly worth the effort of rubbernecking, especially when they’ve all learned one-too-many times that playing peanut gallery to a Marco-Ace-and-Sabo fight could quickly descend into something else they’d never come to see.

In the middle of choosing between permanent migration and permanent self-immolation, Marco was bombarded with a wrap of flame a lot like a hug around his whole body. Ace attacked with enough force to also bring Marco down, and keep him down, pinned to the deck by the joint perseverance of two boys who obviously grew up in the jungle hunting wild beasts for survival.

“Look,” Ace panted into Marco’s beaked face, because they couldn’t make him talk if he stubbornly remained a bird. “You obviously don’t have to tell us, if you don’t want.”

And you are obviously as big of a liar as your brother, Marco wanted to howl, but that would require turning human, which would be playing right into their devious little hands, and Sabo had been tasked with pinning down Marco’s talons but now he’s got an odd little glint in his eyes as he contemplated the limbs that he was gripping and what those limbs were connected to and—

Marco transformed back to full-human in a flash of bright blue, and then promptly kneed Sabo in the face.

“Ow,” Sabo said once more, plaintively gripping his nose.

“It is an evolutionary biological trait,” Marco hissed, hopelessly red from the entire neck up. Hell, he didn’t know which was hotter, his skin or Ace’s hand, still half-flames, gripping his arms (which definitely was not helping with the situation down under). “And I despise both of you yoi.”

“That’s—”

“—fine,” Sabo interrupted Ace nasally, eyes way too shiny for the pathological mind underneath. “But just fucking tell us why you get wet, Marco. Y’know, evolutionarily speaking.”

“I would really,” Marco said, the picture of abject misery, “rather die.”

“Not like that’s ever stopped—Oh.” Fucking Ace. He was almost always the spanner in the works for moments like this, because Sabo’s fanged curiosity could be batted off with a careful defense but Ace’s intuition was merciless as no other. And he wasn’t even nasty about it like Sabo, just open and friendly enough to lull Marco into a false sense of security until Marco’s divulged everything.

“Is this like,” Ace asked, “a bird thing?”

It would be so undignified to try to thrash away like a fish caught on land. Marco seriously contemplated it though, as Sabo’s grin gained teeth.

“Oh Marco,” Sabo sighed breathlessly, “do you have anal gland secretions—”

Marco thrashed. Fuck dignity; it’s not like he’d have any left if he just lied there anyways. He went for Ace first this time, headbutting the guy (of course with haki) and then going for Sabo’s throat. He had windpipe in hand ready to wring when a familiar burst of heat hit his very human back, igniting the blue feather-flames and shooting in a by-now-predictable path down to Marco’s—

“Will you stop that,” Marco snapped, twisting to toss Ace off (not fucking like that) once more. The way he instinctively kept his hip from impacting the ground though, as he rolled uncomfortable into another defensive position, had the unfortunate side effect of tipping Sabo off.

“Oh, so this isn’t just a bird thing, it’s a fire thing. It’s an Ace thing.”

Ace had already hopped back to his feet, no worse for the wear. He wore a confused frown.

“What’s an Ace thing? Marco? Wait, I make you wet?”

Giving up on his pride and his life entirely, Marco slammed his head back into the deck, starfishing onto the ground.

“I don’t get wet,” he answered hollowly, because of all the ways they told him being a pirate on the Grand Line would kill him, nobody’s ever warned him about the twin devils and their persistent fucking questions. “It’s oil, yoi. Phoenixes secret flammable oil that then needs to be preened onto feathers.”

“And you produce those oils…” Ace said.

“Anally,” Sabo finished. Marco nodded, and felt himself die right then and there. Death by humiliation was worse than death by exsanguination, but still somehow better than disembowelment. “Well. That’s convenient.”

“It happens all the time,” because Marco might as well make this death as total as posible, “but the presence of fire encourages more secretions, yes.”

Ace’s face appeared in Marco’s vision, coming over to hove above Marco’s prone body. He wasn’t smiling anymore, really.

“Listen,” he said quite solemnly, “I’m not not-turned on.”

“Yup,” Sabo said, popping the P as he joined Ace’s side, eyeing Marco’s crotchal region. “I’m a total romantic; I can definitely still get it up for your flammable ass grease.”

…Forget death. Phoenixes rose from the ashes anyways. He’d kill Sabo with extreme prejudice, then Ace, then himself, and then murder the blond mouthy bastard all over again in hell, where they’d surely all end up for having this conversation in the first place. He’d show them romantic.

[banrionrua]

FIC PROMPT: BELLAMY AND CLARKE AS JIM AND PAM

it’s like you looked right into my soul and came up with the prompt of all prompts, the prompt of my heart and I love you for it. hope this isn’t absolute trash and sorry it took me so long, I got distracted watching PB&J videos for days on end and have no regrets.

also on ao3

‘the church was plan b’

In retrospect, they should’ve expected this, really.

This wedding was proving to be one shit-show after another, from Jasper tearing his scrotum at the dance party the night before in Monty’s hotel room (splits and keys in pockets were never a good idea) and Clarke (the only sober person left in the hotel) having to spend the night at the ER with him, to Murphy getting banned from the hotel bar approximately five minutes into the night for howling like a wolf and trying to steal three bottles of Jack Daniels, and even to Bellamy himself, who did the one thing they were afraid every and anyone else would do: spill the beans about Clarke’s pregnancy at the rehearsal dinner, in front of her extremely conservative grandmother, Mee-Maw, who then called Clarke a jezebel before refusing to come to the wedding ceremony.

Still, it was hard to put a damper on the day he’d been waiting just about his whole life for.

If someone had told Bellamy Blake five years ago that he’d be marrying the pretty blonde from reception at Factory Station Paper Company, he would have laughed in their face, and then all the way home, too.

Because life wasn’t that good and kind to him, historically, and because timing was a bitch. For years, she had a boyfriend (fiance, if he was being honest) - Finn, the ass of the century who worked down in the warehouse. And Bellamy, he’d just been a kid from the other side of the tracks looking for a steady enough job to get him and his sister by after his mother died. 

So, for a long time, he’d been content to just be her friend. She was his best friend, and God, he was lucky for even that. He came into work everyday thankful for that much. It was a shitty job at a shitty little paper company, and somehow, he still loved every minute of it because of her. She’d changed everything.

It took years, and a lot of waiting (he was a Blake, and patience wasn’t natural to them), and sometimes he thought he’d suffocate from the heavy weight on his chest that threatened to explode more and more everyday as he fell deeper in love with her.

But somewhere, somehow, along the way, his luck changed. She caught Finn with his other girlfriend, Raven, and from there on out, she was short a fiance and had gained a friend. He’d moved away to another branch to try to move on before it all went to hell, then moved back months later when branches merged, with Echo in tow, and it didn’t take Echo all that long to realize he loved her, sure, but not with his whole heart, not the way he loved the receptionist he was always planning pranks on Jasper with, and not the way Echo deserved to be loved. That crumbled, too.

It took tearful confessions and entirely too much time, but somewhere, somehow, he finally got the girl.

The girl he was fifteen minutes away from calling his wife.

So, yeah, despite all the craziness, despite the chaos of inviting their entire office and two mismatched, overbearing families, none of whom listened to their do’s and do not’s for the wedding….he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

He was kicking around a soccer ball outside the chapel with Ethan, their ringbearer - Wells Jaha’s foster son and the light of Thelonious’ eyes - when he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He couldn’t even stop the stupid grin that came at seeing her name pop up with the photo of her licking frosting off his cheek from Fourth of July last summer.

God, he was a goner.

“Are you sure there aren’t any rules against calling me right before we go into the church, Princess? Wouldn’t want to jinx it this late in the game…not sure we could get any of the deposits back at this point.”

“Probably not.” The smile dropped from his face and his stomach sank as soon as he heard her broken voice, sniffles on the other end. “Can you just…come here, please?” She sounded so small, so unlike herself, and he took off before she even hung up, rushing through the back doors of the church to find her.

Please don’t tell me she’s changed her mind. Oh shit, what if it’s the baby? What if something’s wrong? Please, please….

He practically skidded into the small room they’d given her to wait in, finding her sitting on a piano bench sniffling, but even through all his worry - he froze.

Because there was Clarke Griffin, dressed in white, looking more beautiful than he could’ve ever imagined. He was sure he didn’t deserve her, or any of this, but he was thanking every one of the gods, anyway.

“Wow,” he breathed out. “Clarke, you look….wow.”

She let out a watery laugh, “I look like shit.”

He walked over and sat down beside her, thighs pressed against each other, and gently reached out his hand, brushing his thumb against her cheek, feather-light. “Clarke Griffin, I’m not sure you could ever look like shit even if you tried. You look…so beautiful, Princess.”

“No, I don’t,” she said miserably, swiping at her eyes gently, trying not to ruin the makeup Octavia had done for her earlier. “I knew when we found out about the baby that I wouldn’t be able to wear the perfect dress o-or high heels, and that was okay, really, but now I tore my veil and that was the one thing I could control and I just….”

He tried not to show his relief that it was just the veil and not something more serious like his paranoid mind had immediately jumped to, but she still looked so miserable and he’d give anything to make her smile, especially today.

His eyes landed on scissors on the desk to their right behind him, and he reached out, grabbed them, and cut his tie in half.

Her eyes widened, “Bellamy! ”

“Now we’re even,” he shrugged, a lopsided grin on his face. Her eyes shone with more tears, but she was starting to smile, at least. She lifted her hands, motioning a camera click - they’d promised each other to take mental pictures of all the best moments this weekend, something Vera Kane had suggested to them. It was a joke at first, but this?

This she’d remember forever.

He leaned forward, kissing her forehead gently and resting a hand on her barely-there baby bump hidden under the silk of her dress. She sighed and melted into the touch, and he could feel the tension rolling off her body, finally. “They’re all driving me insane, Bell. Jasper and my mom and Thelonious and everyone….I thought this day was supposed to be our day, you know?”

He knew. And honestly, how could they have expected any differently? God love them all, they really were good people, they were just a lot to handle, their friends and family. She was right. Their wedding was supposed to be about them.

This? All this pomp and circumstance, all the decor and frill, it wasn’t them.

He stood then, having made up his mind, and reached out a hand to her, wordlessly. She looked up at him with furrowed brows, but he just smirked.

“Bellamy, what…”

“Do you trust me?” She gave him an unimpressed and still entirely confused look, but put her own hand in his, letting him help her up. He might be crazy, too, but she trusted him more than anyone in the world. That’d been a given a long, long time ago.

“What are you up to, Blake?”

He gave her a quick kiss, still smirking into it. “You’ll see.”

****************************

“Oh my god.”

He closed the passenger door behind her as she got out of the car, jaw still dropped at his surprise. How could they have a destination wedding in Niagara Falls without stopping at the actual falls?

Besides, he’d heard somewhere that boat captains could help them out with the whole marriage thing.

They’d left everyone behind at the church - they’d still be there when they got back, but who cared? This day was about him and his wife.

They could figure the rest out later.

They pulled their blue plastic ponchos over their wedding clothes and walked onto the Maid of the Mist hand in hand, and maybe this wasn’t the grand, majestic affair that Abby Griffin had pictured for her only daughter, or the ‘poppin’ wedding of the century’ that Jasper had certainly planned to dance down the aisle at (they’d found his YouTube playlist of “Best Wedding Entrances Ever - Bellarke Wedding?” the week they’d gotten engaged), but this?

This finally felt right.

Sprays from the waterfall rained on them just as the captain came out and performed their little ceremony, splashing them from head to toe and making Clarke laugh, carefree and blissfully. (Bellamy reckoned it was the best sound in the world, only to later be tied with the sound of their daughter’s first cries when she’s born.) 

He lifted his hands, taking a mental picture, and whether the wetness on his cheeks was from the water or his own tears of pure joy, he couldn’t be sure, but her face looked just the same.

When he kissed her for the first time as his wife, he was sure, for the first time ever, that fate was real, that someone in the great wide universe had been looking out for him after all, because life had led him to Clarke Griffin, and they belonged to each other now.

He said as much a little later as they stood at the front of the ship, her leaning into his side, head resting on his shoulder. She turned to look up at him before leaning up to kiss him again, and it was slow and soft and as magical as the thousands of other kisses they’d shared before, and the millions he planned to keep sharing with her for the rest of their lives.

“Thank you for everything, Bell. For being you. For marrying me. For this plan B of yours….I can’t imagine a more perfect day,” she all but whispered, and he kissed her cold, wet forehead, not able to stop touching her, to stop reminding himself this was all real.

“This wasn’t plan B,” he clarified after a beat. She looked up, that crease between her brows back, confusion written on her face. “Plan B was the church. This was actually Plan C.”

“What was Plan A?”

He turned to her fully now, moving a stray piece of damp hair from her face and gazing at her with all the love in the world. The whole world might be out there, but in that moment, she swore there was no one else but them, in this moment, and if she could pick one moment to live in for the rest of her life, she knew it would be this very one.

“Plan A was marrying you a long, long time ago. Pretty much the day I met you,” he said, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it, and she choked on a happy sob, kissing him again because of all the billions of women in the world, she, Clarke Griffin, knew what it was like to be wholly, completely, unconditionally loved by Bellamy Blake.

****************************

They were over an hour late to their own wedding ceremony, nearly soaked, hair ruined, veil torn, tie cut, and never happier.

When Jasper winked at Monty, and turned on his iPod to ‘Forever’, they couldn’t even find it in them to be upset. Harper quickly apologized to Clarke, knowing this had been explicitly on the Do-Not-Playlist, but Clarke just smiled, telling her to go on.

She looked up to the altar, locking eyes with her husband, and he shook his head with a little shrug. She reached her hands up and took another mental picture.

Yeah. This is perfect.