#and then child barrelling into their legs and ruining the moment LOL

[bechloesupercorp]

Bea watching peacefully through a frosty window. Thick snow draped over the landscape, little footsteps leaving tiny dips in the white. Warm mug of tea cradled in her hands as she smiles at Ava, who's tossing handfuls of powder at their kid.

Delighted giggles filling the air, Bea's heart clenching. Ava's nose is pink and the child is shaking with laughter face down in the snow.

Sometimes she wants to cry. Cry for the deprived childhoods they'd both had, but then cry at the life they've built together, the home they share, filled with love and life and- Beatrice could cry.

THWAP. A snowball flying straight into the glass, startling her out of her thoughts. Mischief twinkling in Ava's eyes. "Come join us!" she shouts, hands in the air. If Bea was three, before she learned the stern necessity of self-restraint, she would have done it, unthinking and free.

Ava's dancing now, head tipped towards the sky. If there is a god, Bea would give everything to be them right now, just to see the joy on Ava's face. It's the little things to love.

Sometimes she can still hear it, the biting, "How undignified," of her mother's tongue. But fuck that. There's nothing holding her back now, pulling on a coat and running into the snow.

[mattzerella-sticks]

metamorphosis

Chapter 1 (ao3)

Prologue (ao3) (tumblr)

What if, when Jack was born, he stayed a baby?

A retelling of season 13, with a few key differences.

No planned schedule, will update when I finish chapters lol

Chapter 1 - Dean I

           “Cas?”

           Dean waited, watching Cas’s lips. He waited for his name to be spoken, said in that same mixture of fondness and exasperation and gravel that ticked the tempo of his heart up a notch. He waited for his angel to smile, then tell Dean that he’s fine; that it wasn’t more than a scratch, that he’s still here.

           Any minute now.

           “…Cas?” Dean’s voice sounded scratchy, raw, like a needle ripped through a spinning record. He blinked back his tears, embarrassed, because Cas might wake soon and see him break, see him not be strong enough. His gaze broke from Cas’s bluing lips, staring at the starless sky above. He saw night begin its transition to early morning, a sun sliver dipping into the horizon, and wondered how long Cas will play with him like this. How long will Cas pretend to lie there? How long will Cas insist that he’s –

           “Cas!” Even with the extra help from gravity, Dean couldn’t stop the pinprick tears tracing their way down to his ears, wetness setting his skin aflame. He choked on a sob, the rubber band of his body snapping and recoiling into itself. His shoulders shook. He squeezed tight to his stomach. Dean closed his eyes, but inside that shuttered darkness was Cas, emerging from the portal. Cas with the blade in his hand. Cas with a blade, poking out his chest. “Oh… oh, God…”

           He’s really gone. He’s gone and Dean hurt. Dean hurt so much.

           Dean cracked one eye open, then another. In his periphery, he saw the tips of Cas’s limp fingers lying in the dirt along with the rest of his body.

           It was something he has wanted to do for some time now. Dean noticed what happens halfway into its journey, his trembling hand hovering over Cas’s. He lowered it cautiously. When there’s barely an inch of space separating his middle finger from Cas’s knuckles, Dean stopped. Dean couldn’t close that final gap. He stared at the emptiness between them, small but terrifyingly infinite, and was frozen in terror.

           “Dean!”

           Sam’s call stirred him from that horrid trance, urgency reminding Dean of all else that happened. Of Crowley’s sacrifice, of the portal closing, of mom on the other side; those events crashed into him like a terrible wave, washing him out into a roaring sea that denied him any sense or reason. Standing, legs ready to give out on him at any moment, Dean stumbled towards where he last heard his brother.

           He forgot about the steps. Sam caught him, guiding him past the threshold and into the cabin with lumbering haste. Dean’s vision returned to him soon, though. He drew Sam further to his side, for a loose hug, then shoved his brother’s oafish frame off of him. Dean supported himself using the wall instead. “What?” he asked, growling, “What is it?”

           Sam tried to speak but got cutoff by a shrill cry coming from another room. Sam shrugged, jerking his head to where, Dean guesses, the crying originated. He’d also take a stab at who’s responsible for crying, too.

           Kelly’s son. Lucifer’s son. The whole damned reason Dean’s life lay shattered in the clearing out back.

           Hearing those whines and sobs rattle the cabin’s chilly silence helped harden what remained of his heart, enough so that the baby’s shrieking echoed in the hollow chambers of Dean’s chest. It made what he must ask next much easier. “You didn’t kill him yet?”

           Sam visibly startled, jaw clenched that familiar way Dean knows meant an argument brewed within; his brother’s puppy dog features deceived, hiding his true feelings. Again, as Sam readied to speak, the baby took his cue and interrupted with a damning wail. Sam pressed his lips into a thin, mangled line while he waited his turn.

           A minute passed, and it’s doubtful the little guy would lose steam soon. Dean sighed. He pushed off the wall, passing Sam as he followed the noisy little bastard. Sam stayed right behind him, heavy footsteps and chiding tone mixing with the crying to shred Dean’s nerves into oblivion. “You are not doing this, Dean,” Sam hissed, tugging on his elbow, “we need to talk about it first –“

           “Who can talk over all this racket!” He wrenched his arm free, storming into the baby’s nursery while Sam dawdled under the doorframe. Their entrance meant little to the newborn, who continued crying despite their entrance. “And I’m not killing him –“ he kept his yet stored in the barrel of his mouth, unfired, conscious of how it will be received in the moment – “gonna shut him up for a while, s’all…” Dean punctuated his claim by grabbing the baby, Jack if the painted name on the crib meant anything, and tucking him into the crook of his arm. He bounced him like he did Sam decades ago, like he would for any normal baby, cooing sweet nothing that tumbled out of him as if they were sand in a broken hourglass, shards mixed within. Dean spied a rocking chair in the corner and, with Sam’s piercing gaze studying him, Dean collapsed into it.

           That seemed to work. Dean’s gentle rocking, paired with a hummed lullaby cherrypicked from his past, put the hellion in his arms at ease. Jack stared up, transfixed by what Dean guessed is the tall lamp casting a gentle glow on them both; a lamp Sam, now in the room and by his side, flicked on after Dean sat down. It must be the center of his focus, because Dean wouldn’t believe the baby looked at him like he did; like he’s a bright and beautiful thing, deserving of attention, of being the center of his known universe. He didn’t want that, especially from him.

           Dean swallowed a curse and ended their contest, sure if he looked into the baby’s eyes any longer, he would damn the consequences and wring the life from this tiny body nestled in his hands. He waited for Jack’s fit to tamper lower and lower, rising only after a moment of uninterrupted silence. Dean carried Jack back, returning him to his crib. He added another mistake into the column of ever-increasing errors and glanced at Lucifer’s kid a final time. He examined him, searching for little horns or a tail or tattoos of sixes; he found nothing. Nothing that proved he’s more than a child, innocent and carefree.

           Sam hung by his shoulder, buzzing halo bothersome in Dean’s ear. “I think he likes you.”

           Dean huffed under breath, “I wish I could say the same.”

           He left. Sam trailed in his wake; tread heavy from being constipated with a smug righteousness Dean dreaded will be shat all over him when Sam had the chance. He was silent until the kitchen, then Sam struck. “His mother just died, Dean.”

           Dean shrugged, “So did ours.” He expected that to feel weird saying, but it hadn’t. Sam gaped at him, like it had. Maybe Dean’s in shock. Maybe he was too used to having a dead mom. Dean carried on regardless. “If you think a sob story’s gonna convince me of anything, try hitting me when the kids got enough pages to fill a book larger than Moby Dick’s, or ours. Right now, he’s a table of contents and not much else.”

           “Exactly,” Sam needled, poking Dean’s chest. Dean swat him away with the refrigerator door, creating a makeshift barrier to protect himself from Sam’s crusade. He dug around for something to drink, something boozy, as Sam prattled. “Look, Dean, we… I know our thing is – our thing is killing monsters but, Dean, he’s a baby. He – he didn’t do anything –“

           “He was conceived,” Dean said, “that’s enough for me.” His groping fingers pushed aside the carton of milk for a third time; he still couldn’t find the beer.

           “That wasn’t his fault.” Sam rested his hand over Dean’s where it rested on the refrigerator door, pleading for Dean to look at him by touch alone. Dean relented, darting his eyes for a fleeting glance. Sam’s brows were drawn in like a steep hill, and he appeared absolutely ghastly because of the refrigerator’s light. Dean fell back to his mission. “Lucifer… he set this in motion, and we’ve dealt with him.”

           “And what did it cost us?”

           Sam sighed. “Everyone we lost knew what this was about,” he told Dean, “knew how it might end. They were ready to risk their lives for this.”

           “We were here to take down Lucifer, end of story,” Dean spat, knocking items onto the floor in his fervor. He tore through like a whirlwind, throwing food everywhere. Eggs, lettuce, ketchup and pickles – no beer though. Dammit. “And with the kid kicking, we haven’t even finished our mission.”

           “Jack is not Lucifer!” Sam squeezed Dean’s wrist, begging for more attention. Dean’s spiteful, rigid glare burned a hole in the back of the fridge. He refused to move even an inch. “He’s a baby, and we… we kill monsters. We kill the ones who have no chance of being saved. He was just born, Dean. He had no choice in that.”

           “Who’s to say that he won’t choose to be a monster, once he’s old enough?”

           Sam strangled his wrist, now, Dean’s fingers numbing because of his brother’s impassioned grip. “We’ll make sure. We’ll raise him right.”

           This drew Dean out of the refrigerator. “We?” he laughed, bitterness churning in his gut. “We, really? You think…” Dean didn’t finish, speechless at the insanity Sam presented. He and Sam, raising Lucifer’s kid? He and Sam, sheltering the baby who ruined their lives? He and Sam… “I hate to break it to you, Sammy,” he continued, his voice returning, “but this ain’t the nineties. We can’t have it all, clearly. And we are not taking that kid in like some muddy stray.”

           “Cas wanted to raise him.”

           Dean gagged. The toxic rush of seconds ago disappeared, spilling out from the seam Sam pulled loose.

           Sam, at least, was aware enough to briefly mime an apology. His face contorted into a pained expression, exaggerated to better mangle his earlier fury. However, that’s smoothed and replaced with sterner features as he detached himself from his words, and the ugliness that they inspired. He stood tall, committed to the outburst, and from the curl of his scowl, Dean wouldn’t expect him to take back what’s been said. It will linger like the other ghosts.

           If that was how he wanted to do this.

           “Sure,” Dean agreed, “and that got him what, exactly?” He slammed the refrigerator door, startling both of them and the baby. Jack’s wailing picked up where he left off, although sharper and more annoying. Dean pushed into Sam, instinct urging him to soothe like he did earlier. Dean stopped himself, hesitating. He spun on his heel, leaving where he came in.

           Sam shouted, “You can’t just run away Dean!”

           “I’m getting some air, is all!” he yelled back, ripping the door off its hinges in his haste to leave.

           A terrifying gust rammed into him almost immediately, giving him the very air he craved. Then, a second wind blows in the opposite direction; stealing his breath as his gaze landed on the body of his angel, immobile, with black skid marks in a shoddy recreation of what might be wings splayed beside him like oddly bent branches. Dean blindly descended, too focused with Cas’s form than the stairs. When his feet reached solid, uneven ground, Dean slowed to a glacial pace. Cas didn’t react.

           Dean tried not to, too. Hand at his cheek, wiping some more stray tears, Dean failed.

           He ripped himself away, jogging from the backyard space towards the front where his true escape was. Dean white knuckled his keys, jagged teeth biting into the palm of his hand. Pain kept him from spiraling, from thinking, from staying there. And when he couldn’t use pain, key nestled in the ignition instead of his hand, Dean had the next best thing – open roads.

           The engine roared, overpowering the blood rushing past his ears. Dean demolished the speed limit easily, bulleting across the asphalt, pedal his trigger. It’s early enough he needn’t worry about highway patrolmen or wayward pedestrians. He drove fast, loose, and recklessly. Fuck Vin Diesel, Dean thought. Vin had nothing on him.

           Kelly’s cabin was a blurry spot in his rearview mirror, a speck he might scratch off with his nail if he pleased. Trees became indistinguishable from each other. Not that it mattered, Dean’s tunnel vision blocking his periphery. His eyes remained fixed ahead of him, uncharacteristically so. It took most his focus to keep like that, hands cramping on the wheel from throttling it. He counted dash after dash and tallied potholes as he hit them, stuffing his mind with senseless figures other than the lone one he abandoned in the field.

           Soon, Dean reached a nearby town. The greenery became sparser, leaves and wood replaced by buildings and city blocks and lampposts and streetlights. He hit his first light, a blip of red flashing for attention. Thoughtlessly, Dean flattened his foot against the brake; Baby’s tires squealing as she fought momentum. Dean knocked against his dashboard from the force, falling back only after his car fully stopped. He couldn’t see the streetlight dangling above. Dean knew he sat over the line, his Baby’s hood hanging in the intersection, asking for an accident.

           A second later, and what he was driving from caught up to him.

           Dean gasped, curling in on himself, hands glued to the wheel. His body seized with sobs that bruise, each tremor punching his gut. He used what little strength he had and glanced at his reflection. That speck on his rearview, that he foolishly clawed at, didn’t disappear; it was caught in his bloodshot eyes.

           He couldn’t continue driving like this.

           Red light, green light, it didn’t matter now. Dean crawled along to the nearest lot that belonged to a tacky chain eatery. Parking inside, Dean threw his car door open and spilled free of his Baby. He fell to his knees, hissing, denim ripping on impact and gravel scratching his skin. Dean staggered to his feet. Blood trickled down his leg from the open wound on his knee. He walked forward, dazed, while Baby idled at an angle, keys trapped in her ignition. If it were later in the day, someone might steal her. If Dean were acting like himself, he might care.

           He didn’t go far. Dean slowed as he approached the fast-food joint, stopping inches from the backdoor. His bottom lip wobbled, Dean raking his hair with twitching fingers. He stared at the door, at the wooden sign hanging by a single, rusted nail. It depicted a stereotypical pirate, with hat, beard, and eyepatch, painted on a blue background and encircled by cartoonish rope that framed this pirate’s face along with an oblong addition underneath of the word ‘BUCCANEERS’. The pirate glared ahead, at some far point, as if Dean weren’t there blocking it.

           But he was. Dean was here, while everyone else – everyone he cared about…

           “Why me?” he muttered, “Why’s it always… why do I have to deal with it, with the after, with picking up the pieces of someone else’s mess.” Dean growled, head bowed, eyes unflinchingly locked with the pirate’s. “Mom… Crowley… Ca” – he stuttered on his name, wounds still too fresh – “you’re gonna bring him back. You’re gonna bring them all back. After everything I’ve done for this shithole, that I’ve been through, it’s the least that I’m owed. I deserve to… I – I don’t deserve this.”

           The pirate ignored his pleas, it couldn’t answer him. And Chuck, apparently, wouldn’t answer him.

           “…Okay.”

           Dean launched himself at the pirate, picturing a brown beard instead of black, and a grayish blue eye where a black one was painted. He smashed it with one punch, face splintering and spraying everywhere. Dean continued wrecking it, nearly destroying the door in his fury. Aiming a final blow, Dean hit the sign off the nail and sent it flying from view.

           Exhausted, knuckles as bloody as his knee, Dean collapsed near the stacked crates and leaning pallets.

           A shudder traveled across his body, from the top of his head, dragged along each vertebra like a sharp, clawed finger, and finally making his legs seize and stretch out in front of him. Dean vacuumed in a deep breath, chest ballooning to contain it. He won’t release it willingly.

           “Dude…”

           Coughing, Dean glanced up at some teenager standing nearby, gaping at the scene. He wore a large brown jacket a shade lighter than his skin over a deep blue polo that matches the visor currently worn like a headband, so his bangs wouldn’t  his face. A ring of keys dangled in his hands. Keys that, Dean guessed, were for opening the very door he pummeled as if it were a punching bag.

           “Hey, man,” the teen asked, glancing between Dean and the wrecked door, “are you… like, good? Do I need to call someone?”

           A repairman. The teen’s manager. Neither would do Dean any good, but both will need to know about the damage he did to the property.

           Dean groaned, climbing to his feet. He swayed with the breeze, a lone willow in this blacktop clearing. Some of the blood from his knuckles drippled like morning dew would off its leaves. He advanced, the teen tensing as he moves closer. Their shoulders brushed, the younger of the two stumbling back a few inches, cowering in Dean’s presence. Dean thought he should say something, let him know there’s nothing to be afraid of.

           That felt like too much of a damned lie, so he caught the words in his throat and swallowed them down.

           He returned to his car, starting it like nothing happened, like his skin hadn’t torn and tears weren’t drying on his cheeks as he refused to wipe them off. Dean tapped the pedal and drove off. He drove the same path he took earlier, only in reverse. He drove to Kelly’s cabin, and all that waited for him there.

           Dean parked sloppily, again; however, pocketing his keys this time as he left Baby. He didn’t acknowledge the front door, shuffling into the backyard for another glimpse of Cas’s body.

           Cas was gone. His wings were still there, and Sam was, too.

           Sam dropped a stack of branches onto a large pile he must have begun gathering after Dean fled. He rubbed at his neck, steadily avoiding where Dean’s gaze was by looking at the pile. “I moved him,” he explained, “I figured we might as well start on the… on the pyres for him, and Kelly.” Sam paused. He grabbed a lone branch, snapping a twig from it. “I didn’t do anything else. Figured you would want to…”

           “Yeah.” Dean blinked, then imagined the shadows burnt into the ground rising and rising, flapping determinately, until they vanished. He blinked. Those wings hadn’t moved an inch.

           Dean headed into the cabin.

           He spied Cas’s body immediately, laid atop the kitchen table. Sam rearranged him during transit, closing his eyes and setting Cas’s arms at his sides. If he weren’t thinking about it constantly, weren’t reminded of Cas’s current state with every beat of his own heart, Dean might believe Cas was asleep. Or, at the very least, imitating it, since angels can’t sleep. They can’t eat. There’s a lot they can’t do. And Cas won’t ever not do any of that, not anymore.

           Sighing, Dean circled the table while tracing the edges of it with his fingertips. He reached the other side, where a gauzy pair of curtains hung. Dean swung his arm outward, going through the motions to free them. It’s quick work.

           Wrapping Cas with these curtains will take a lifetime.

            Dean started by lifting Cas’s head and slipping a strip underneath. He cradled him, unnaturally soft tufts of hair tickling his fingers. Holding Cas in such a manner encouraged further action, tempted Dean to do more. He succumbed to these voices, the fast few hours since they last sung weakened his resolve. Dean ran his bloodied knuckles across Cas’s face. He stained deathly pale skin red. He hissed, stubble like sandpaper against his cuts. He left no wrinkle untouched.

           Finally, Dean switched to his thumb and pressed it just below Cas’s lips.

           It’s maddening, touching Cas like this, like he always wanted. He dreamt of being able to for longer than he could remember. Daydreams and fantasies of Dean, curled into Cas’s side, leisurely and lovingly memorizing every inch of the other’s face. Those moments were always pretend, too human to ever be real, to expect from an angel like Cas. Now, as his thumb swept along the bow of Cas’s lips, Dean paid his respects to the thousands of imagined mornings and nights that would not be. Dean worshiped Cas in a way he never wanted to, but in the only way he’d ever be allowed to.

           “I’m sorry…” Dean placed a featherlight kiss to the corner of Cas’s mouth. Then, unable to bear looking at him, he wrapped the curtain over his face.

           He shrouded the rest of Cas’s body with military precision, robotically completing his ritual. Dean hovered at his side, tightly clutching the final knot in Cas’s wrappings. His head hung listlessly, the foundations of a prayer forming on his tongue. He gnashed his teeth together, smashing it, and the sentiment’s remains tumbled backwards. It ripped apart his insides like glass. The only person who would listen, who’d care, who might heal this hurt, couldn’t.

           Cas was –

           Dean let go, marching into the backyard. Silently Dean joined Sam, amassing wood in his stead while Sam assembled the pyres.

           Together, they completed their duties by sundown. It might have been sooner if Sam didn’t slack off to play nursemaid to Lucifer’s kid. He ran off at the slightest bit of static coming from the garish, incongruently colored baby monitor clipped onto his belt loop, dragging their duties out because of intermittent breaks. When they finally set Cas and Kelly on their respective pyres, the sky darkened to the same shade it was that they lost both of them.

           Dean handled the fire. He struck two matches from a box buried in a kitchen drawer, then tossed them into the kindling. Sam, meanwhile, held a very fussy baby that showed no respect for ceremony. His piercing shrieks rung out clearly, somehow amplified by the open space. And as Jack’s cries mixed with the roar and crackle of flames, along with Sam mindlessly grunting back in a desperate plea for Jack to stop, Dean gave in. He stole Jack from Sam, nestling the baby against his chest.

           His temper lessened while in Dean’s arms, and Jack soon quieted.

           Dean felt Sam’s stare on his profile once more, an uncomfortable heat much different than what radiated from the cremating bodies before them. He hated it, being gawked at like some zoo animal. Yet Dean refused to turn, to bark at Sam that this momentary lapse meant nothing.

           He’s only exhausted. Too tired to shutter the devastation on his face, every crack of Dean’s heart was on full display. He’s not in the mood to fight with Sam, either, aware he needed him more than he needed to lash out. He’s broken and couldn’t even manage the energy to toss Jack into the fires like he imagined himself doing.

           Instead, Dean embraced him. He watched the smoke of his angel’s body drift upwards, Cas leaving him for good, forever, and rested his chin against the small, soft head of Cas’s destroyer.

Tagged List:

@llamasdumpsterfire

[ofbeastsandwizards]

Cinderella - Sherlock x Reader

The First installment of my Happily Ever Never Oneshot Collection!  Pairing: BBC Sherlock x Reader

Summary: Living in the sucluded, poor and rundown area of London, the young peasant girl never thought she’d meet the prince, the heir to the throne, of England. Nor did she think she’d meet his less popular, detective brother. And even more so, she’d never expect falling head-over-glass slipper for him either.

Warnings: fluff, lotsa angst, a bit of swearing. It’s also hella long so there’s that lol

Enjoy!

————

Her name was [Y/n]. The young girl lived with her stepmother and her daughter in her father’s old home on the edge of London. It was run down, but beautiful none the less. She would have had money. Would have been respected, if her late father hadn’t married the skunk that was sat on the living room armchair. [Y/n] was scrubbing relentlessly at the tiled floors, her clothing old and torn. She wouldn’t have minded working. She really wouldn’t have. If she was getting paid, or even working for somebody even a smidgeon less greedy than her current ‘employer’, who thought nothing more of her than a slave.

Sometimes that’s what [Y/n] felt she was to her. Nothing but a slave. It was sad sometimes, but she tried her best to maintain her composure.

Today, however, her stepmother’s daughter, Anna, had received an invitation from the royal family. As her father had been a once wealthy duke, the entire family was requested to attend, despite him no longer being alive.

Anna screeched giddily when [Y/n] had handed over the envelope. They hardly ever got mail. It was almost always over the internet nowadays, not that they could afford to even own a laptop or computer.

Her stepmother was stuck in the past anyways.

[Y/n] stood patiently until Anna’s ear-piercing screams were silenced. She bounded towards her mother. “Mum! Mum look! We’ve been invited to the royal ball!” She exclaimed.

Her mother examined the paper and grinned slyly. “Well! I suppose we’ll have to find you a beautiful gown now won’t we?”

[Y/n] frowned. She knew it wasn’t her place, but surely, she’d get to go? “What about me?” She asked quietly.

Anna’s screeches were silenced at her words and her stepmother sent her a deadly stare. “Did I say you could talk, brat?” She hissed.

[Y/n] began to boil and she bit her lip, staring at the ground, to keep from an angry outburst. “N-No, ma’am.” She mumbled.

She huffed, and stood from her seat brushing past the young girl. “Besides! I wouldn’t want you there anyways! Ruining my image! Are you insane?” She laughs.

The girl shook her head once more. “N-No...not at all ma’am.”

She scoffs. “Well you act it sometimes! Get ahold of yourself girl!” She tuts, hitting her shoulder harshly as she waltzes out of the room. She turns. “So, you are not going! You need to finish your chores! And I will not have a filthy girl like you be standing with me at the Royal Ball!” She exclaimed, exiting the room with Anna in tow, a small frown of pity on her face.

[Y/n] was left standing there, like a time-bomb, ready to explode into a million, fuming pieces. She turned and stomped her way up the steps to her attic room, and closed the door in anger, locking it.

She threw herself onto her bed and screamed into a pillow.

I’m tired of being treated like shit! I’m not some piece of worthless trash!

Then, she began to break down into tears, turning over, as she choked on silent sobs.

Am I?

She shook her head, lip quivering.  Then suddenly, a knock on her door interrupted her self-loathing time. She sat up, and wiped her nose of her stained sleeve.

“What do you want?” She yelled. She realized she shouldn’t have sounded so harsh, as it may have been her stepmother and she braced for impact.

“[Y/n]. It’s Anna.”

She practically snarled at her pity-filled voice.

“Go away!” She hissed.

Anna frowned from the other side of the door. Despite being the child of that evil woman downstairs, she wasn’t all bad. Yes, she was greedy and selfish, but she also easily felt pity for those around her and ‘wanted to help the needy’.

“[Y/n] I’m sorry for what my mother told you. I convinced her to let you come with.” She murmured from behind the door. “The ball is tomorrow night.”

[Y/n] was silent then. She had never been that nice to her despite how nice she seemed at the moment.

“Oh.” “Make sure you actually wear something presentable.” She snarked, before her footsteps faded down the steps. [Y/n]’s frown deepened, and she held up her middle finger towards the door, sticking out her tongue childishly.

She frowned and lowered her hand, collapsing backwards onto her bed, sleep overtaking her.

———— time skip ————

It was morning now, and [Y/n] had woken up late, much to her stepmother’s distaste, who had a full day of shopping planned for Anna whilst [Y/n] was to clean the entire house to receive her ‘‘reward” of attending the ball.

[Y/n] had just finished doing her chores, and it was about 4 o’clock now. She had a few hours to spare, and so she took it upon herself to break out the only nice dress she owned. An heirloom from her mother, which was a beautiful baby blue gown, but the problem was, it was ripped and torn, and had blood stained onto the fabric.

[Y/n] wasn’t sure what the blood itself was from, and she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know. Her mother’s past was all a blur to her. She was a beautiful woman, yes, but her father told stories of her adventures and how ‘badass she was when he met her’. She chuckled to herself, but grimaced at the sight of the blood once more.

“I can’t possibly wear that.” She grumbled, and tossed it onto her bed. She skimmed through her closet of bland sweatshirts, t-shirts, bandanas and jeans and frowned when she couldn’t find anything.

“Well this just sucks arse.” She bit her lip and stared at the gown laid out on her bed. The sleeve was ripped, and so it no longer laid upright but hung down. The tulle on the skirt was ripped and frayed, and there was a blood stain near the lower hemline, which could easily be concealed, but there was also a rather obvious stain on the chest area, about the size of her head, which colored the blue a wine red.

The idea of wine crossed her mind for a moment, and an idea struck her. She bundled the dress in her arms and raced from her room and down the stairs. She made her way outside and out the separate door and into the wine cellar below her house. She fumbled with the door, before it creaked open and she slipped inside.

The room was dark, and she could barely make out the forms of large barrels and bottles stacked throughout the room.

She reached to her left and flicked on a light, stumbling down the stairway and towards a large bottle of red wine, which matched the color of the blood stained onto her dress. She grinned and cradled it in her arms, stumbling back up the stairs and out into the courtyard, crossing back towards her house and making a b-line for her bedroom.

Once upstairs, she got to work. She located the area of the tulle that was ripped and slit it upwards on the skit, creating a leg slit that looked as through it was supposed to be there all along. She decided she’d hem the slit, and she got to work on the sleeves. She fixed their rosed covered fabric and stitched the sleeve back onto the body of it, re-adjusting it so it went off the shoulder. She stood back. Apart from the blood, it looked like it was supposed to be that way.

Then, she dumped all of the wine into a large bucket and dropped the dress into it. She would let it soak for half an hour and let it dry for another.

Once the first process finished, she dug around for the old clothespin that was buried somewhere in her room and strung it in front of the single window inside her bedroom. She brought the dripping gown up to it and clipped it on.

It sagged, having been still soaked in wine. [Y/n] held her nose at the strong scent of alcohol. She never was an alcohol fan. She suspected she never would be, as she’d rather keep her dignity.

She moved back towards her bed, but tripped on a scrapbook peeking out form under her bed frame.

“Ah!” She shrieked, falling forward and landing on the bed. She grumbled, sitting back up. She leaned over the bed and picked it up, examining the cover.

Her eyes softened as she read the front cover. In words written in glittery writing was the title; “[Y/n]’s Wedding Scrapbook!”

It was everything that she wanted her wedding to be like. She would wear a beautiful off-white gown, complete in a [favorite wedding dress style] style, and a beautiful flowing, floor length train. Everything was perfectly planned out.

Her hand turned a page and she saw her and her mother and father, sitting in the grass, having a picnic. It was an old Polaroid picture.

She remembered the most important thing about her wedding.

She’d have her father walking her down the isle, a proud smile on his face as she approached her soon-to-be significant other. She bit her lip, closing her eyes and tears piled up and out of her eyes, stinging her cheek.

Her lip quivered and she choked a bit, shaking her head and slamming the book closed. She slid it back under her bed, and laid her head back down on her pillow.

She waited for the dress to dry completely, but she grew too impatient, and she didn’t want her stepmother and Anna to see her fixing up the dress. So, in a rush, she collected the damp dress, holding it out in front of her to preserve her clothes best she could.

She reached the laundry room, and put it inside of the dryer, turning it on and waiting as it dried the dress. She hoped it wouldn’t shrink or rip, and took care to put the setting to ‘gentle’.

After the 10 minutes had passed, she took the dress from the dryer and examined it. All looked well and she grinned.

Her thoughts were interrupted, however, by the sound of the front door opening. She gasped and went as fast as she could straight to her room, just as they stepped inside, her stepmother and Anna talking rather loudly from downstairs.

She pushed her door closed in a swift motion and it made a dull click. Then she heard her stepmother yell from downstairs.

“You’d better have something nice to wear to the ball or you’ll be staying here!” She screeched from downstairs. [Y/n] smirked to herself and rolled her eyes.

“You wanted nice. Let’s see your face when you see my gown then.” [Y/n] snickered to herself as she sat on her bed, facing the window. Her dress was still bundled in her arms as she giggled at Anna’s muffled attempts to put on her gown from just below her in her room.

[Y/n] decided she should get ready, and so she changed out of her stained clothing and pulled the dress over her body. It was a bit snug on her, but she didn’t mind. She approached the mirror in her bedroom and admired her reflection. The dress was beautiful, and wasn’t too revealing which pleased [Y/n], as she didn’t really like low-cut dresses, but the fit was close to perfect. She grinned but then her eyes met her hair.

It was a mess of tangled strands, dangling [above/below/at] her shoulders. She grumbled and ran a comb through it, until it looked presentable, wincing the entire time. 

After her hair was mostly presentable, she looked herself over once more, and stretched her arm to the jewelry box sitting on the small indent of wall above her mirror. She clicked open the latch, and opened the lid.

Inside was a silver chain necklace with a beautiful silver locket, shaped in an intricate story-book like design. The book opened to reveal a tiny picture of her father and mother, back when they were young and carefree. She smiled warmly at the photo, and clicked the locket shut.

She swung the chain around her neck and struggled momentarily before managing to connect the other end. She nodded firmly to herself once giving herself another once-over.

Then, as if on cue, there was a knock on her door.

“Hey! You’d better be ready!” Anna exclaimed. [Y/n] bit her lip and snatched her trench coat from her bedpost, and buttoned the long jacket over her dress in an effort to cover it as best as possible.

She rushed towards her door and opened it, Anna had a scowl on her face and turned when she walked out her door. She turned and closed it and they made their way downstairs. Anna was clad in a turquoise gown, which was overly poofy, and resembled that of a pageant gown rather than a ball gown.

[Y/n] stuck out her tongue at her sense of style and rolled her eyes as they went outside to get inside of the pickup truck that her stepmother owned. She was already in the drivers seat, and [Y/n] squeezed her way into the crowded and dirty backseat.

Good thing I’m wearing a coat.

———— time skip ————

“Alright.” Her stepmother stopped the truck down the street from the palace. “I have some rules. You-” She waved a finger at [Y/n]. “Stay 20 feet away from us at all times.” She stated.  “And don’t even think about talking to my prince!” Exclaimed Anna.

[Y/n] rolled her eyes. “Fine. I won’t.”

“Oh! And don’t you dare go near the ballroom. You are not to dance with the prince or any duke! Have at it with the waiters though, they’re all worthless blokes.” Her stepmother stated.

[Y/n] sighed and nodded. Her stepmother looked pleased, and they all exited the car. The mother and daughter darted straight down the street and towards the palace, leaving [Y/n] to scoff and follow after them, digging around for that letter to gain entrance.

Once they reached the gate, the guard looked over the paper and nodded, letting them inside. Her stepmother and Anna went straight inside and [Y/n] lingered behind, climbing the steps.

She entered, and pulled off her coat, handing it to one of the men collecting them, and took a deep breath. She listened to the distant music and laughing people down the hall. She strayed a bit away from the crowd and stayed on the outskirts of the ballroom. A man carrying a tray with glasses of water passed her. She gracefully picked one up and took a sip, thanking the man.

She then spotted somebody much like her, staying near the outskirts and leaning against a marble post. She approached him and leaned on the next post over, sipping her water.

They both stood in silence, before she looked towards him, examining him. He had brown- almost black, curly hair, and a defined face. He was wearing a suit, which was fairly casual for this style of party, yet still very formal.

His eyes were scanning the crowds of dancing couples, solemnly watching them dance. Then, his eyes landed on [Y/n].

She sucked in a breath and turned away, choosing not to talk to the man. Then, he broke the silence.

“I’m guessing you’re not a fan of party’s then either.” He stated. The music blared dimly in the background.  [Y/n] sighed. “No, not really. You aren’t then?” She asked.

The man shook his head, eyes still watching the crowds. “No. My brother’s always forcing me into them.” He stated.

[Y/n] chuckled and followed the man’s gaze. “I’m sure he means the best. He can’t be any worse than my stepsister.” She stated.

The man was silent. [Y/n] turned and leaned towards him, her hand extended. “I’m uh, I’m [Y/n].”

He eyed her hand and looked back up, ignoring her gesture. “Sherlock Holmes.”

[Y/n] stiffened at the name. That detective prince guy? She cleared her throat, and leaned back, returning to her place, bringing her water up to her lips once more.

They stood like that for a while, before Sherlock made a sudden movement towards her, which startled [Y/n] half out of her mind.

“You haven’t left yet.” He observed. [Y/n] froze and gave him a cheeky smile. “Why haven’t you left yet?” He asked, a bit more concerned this time.

[Y/n] furrowed her brows. “You haven’t given me a reason to leave yet.” She stated, rather confused.

Sherlock studied her face and leaned back a bit, still examining her.

[Y/n] stood her ground under his harsh gaze before his eyes softened a bit. “Well, usually when people hear my name, they go running.” He stated.

[Y/n] shook her head. “It takes a little more than a name to scare me, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes in contemplation. He then looked away.

“You’re very different from the girls that usually attend these types of things.” He said.

[Y/n] smiled crookedly. “Is that good or bad?” She asked, crossing her arms, whilst still holding the glass in her left hand.

Sherlock didn’t answer for a moment, before glancing back towards the ballroom, and looking back at [Y/n] with an intrigued smile.

“Do you want to dance?” He asked, sounding a bit unsure of himself.  [Y/n] smiled, and nodded. “I’d love to.”

Sherlock let himself smile a bit wider, and [Y/n] stopped leaning on the wall, and placed her glass on a nearby table-top. The pair made their way to the ballroom dance-floor and stood near the center.

[Y/n] placed her hand on Sherlock’s arm, and her other connected with Sherlock’s. Sherlock hesitantly placed his other hand on her waist and they began to sweep across the floor gracefully. [Y/n] refused to meet his gaze, and instead decided to talk a bit to lighten the mood.

“So.” She started, her eyes barely flickering to his. “I take it you know how to dance then?”  Sherlock turned to meet her eyes. “Yes, I learned when I was fairly young. And what about you?”

[Y/n] stifled a laugh and took a deep breath. “My father taught me when I was five.”

Sherlock nodded. “You had to have come here with somebody.” Sherlock mumbled, which seemed more of like a comment to himself rather than to [Y/n]. But the young woman caught his words almost immediately.

She smiled. “If you mean being left alone by my evil stepmother and stepsister, then you’d right.” 

Sherlock hummed, and his gaze scanned the crowd. His eyes then widened as they met something in the distance. “Get down!” He yelled a bit loudly, pushing [Y/n] onto the ground as he crouched low to the ground as well.

Gunshots echoed through the hall, the crowd erupting in screams, people ran like wild and a few bodies were scattered along the floor. “Dammit!” Sherlock hissed.

‘‘What the hell?” [Y/n] was growing anxious and her body began to shake. She sucked in deep breathes and looked around at the screaming people.  Sherlock turned. He now has a gun in his hand. It was pointed to the floor and [Y/n] eyed it suspiciously, before meeting his gaze as he spoke. “Listen to me. You need to get somewhere safe, and stay low to the ground.” He began to stand up, but [Y/n] grabbed at his coat tails hurriedly.

“No!” She stumbled on her words for a moment. “I-I’m not running away. I’m not hiding. I’ve been doing that all my life. I’m coming with you.”

He narrowed his eyes and looked her over, the screams growing louder. He groaned in annoyance but held out his hand for her to take. She offered a bittersweet smile, and took it.

Sherlock pulled her up, and the pair scurried into the hallway where they had previously been standing. [Y/n] picked up her glass from before, and smashed it against the marble posts, creating a fairly large and sharp piece of glass. Sherlock eyed her, and she shrugged, a smirk on her face.

He turned back around and held his gun in front of him, slowly making his way towards where the person was shooting from the staircase. [Y/n] held her shank in front of her, following in Sherlock’s steps as they made their way closer.

Sherlock cued her to go on the opposite side of the staircase and wait for him to give her the signal, (which was Sherlock firing his gun), and the young woman obeyed. Sherlock approached the man, who was clad in a trench coat and had a balding head.

Sherlock stood near him, and the man ceased his firing, the screams still filling the room from below. “Hey!”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Come to stop me Shirley?” He growled, pointing his gun at Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged. 

“Not really.” Then, Sherlock pointed his gun to the ceiling, and fired.

The man let out a sickening laugh.

“You missed.” He snarled, a hideous smirk on his face.

“You’re right, I did.” Sherlock lowered his gun. ‘‘But she didn’t.” Just then, [Y/n] stabbed the glass into his back and the man gasped, falling backwards. [Y/n] stopped back and watched as he fell to the ground, gasping for breath eyes staring up at [Y/n] as Sherlock approached and looked down at him.

The glass dug deeper into the man’s back and he narrowed his eyes. [Y/n] dusted off her hands, which were now stained with blood, and joined Sherlock’s side.

“I hate you.” The man spat, blood pooling from under him. [Y/n] frowned, and hummed.

Sherlock put away his gun and pushed his hands into his pockets. [Y/n] looked to him. “What now?” She asked.

Sherlock looked her over at her, then looked towards the door. ““We should probably leave.”

[Y/n] laughed and nodded. “Good idea.” She smiled, and the duo made their way to the palace gates.

Once outside the large doors, they stopped in the garden. “We never did finish that dance, did we?” Asked [Y/n]. Sherlock looked down at her and smiled a bit.

“No, I suppose not.”  “So....?”

Sherlock took [Y/n]’s hand and they began to dance again. The night was peaceful despite the commotion from inside. They danced in silence for quite a while, until they tired, and stopped dancing to walk about the garden. 

“Y’know, I never thought something like this would happen to me.”

Sherlock glanced down at her as they walked. “What? Killing a murderer?”

[Y/n] snorted and looked away. “Well that, and-” She motioned is between herself and Sherlock. “This.”

Sherlock looked at her in confusion. They stopped walking.

“You’re a prince. I’m nothing but a common girl living in London.”

Sherlock looked a bit offended. “Like that should matter?” He asked.

“Well it usually matters to most people. I’ve never even danced with anybody but my own father. I never thought I’d even go near the palace. And yet here we are.”

“Exactly. Why does your social rank have to have anything to do with if you can meet new people, or dance with them?”

[Y/n] looked away. “I was raised by my stepmother to think that way, I guess.”

“Well you shouldn’t have to think that way.” He reasoned.  [Y/n] smiled a bit. “Yeah, you’re right.”

They stood in silence for a while, continuing their walk. “Hey, Sherlock?” She asked.

Sherlock hummed. “Thank you.”

“For what?” He asked.

[Y/n] smiled. “For tonight, for the dance, for everything.”

Sherlock returned the smile, and [Y/n] leaned over to hug him. Sherlock froze and stood still while she clung to him. He rolled his eyes and slowly, hesitantly wrapped his arms around her form.  “You’re welcome.”

Woahhhhh that was fun to write! :O 

I don’t know! What did you guys think? Anyways! Let me know if I missed you on the tag list! I lost a few of the asks so maybe resend them if you get the chance! Thanks! :>

Comment to be added to the tag list!  Happily Ever Never Tag List:

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[bisexualstokes-archive]

letswaitforme replied to your post “letswaitforme replied to your post: letswaitforme ...”

Omg I would fucking read that!!!! Hahaha I was going to say doesn’t nick get tortured like 94.5% of the time now

lol teenage MK wasn’t very creative with the whump though, most of it is just nick getting buried...again BUT i did find this fic that i’m skimming through real quick in which nick and greg are kidnapped together and damn...i might need to re-write it:

(LOTS OF NICK AND GREG WHUMP BELOW)

“Greg,” Nick answers to his own question. “Greg, can you move your hands? If you can, tap my shoulder once.”

Nick feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Ok, is there some kind of tape on my eyes to prevent me from seeing?”

Tap. Yes, there is. If he tells Greg to take it off, Nick might let out a yell or something if it is indeed duct tape. That yell might alert the kidnapper, wherever they are and therefore ruin any chance of fighting or escaping. He would need to do it himself...and with free hands.

He shifts his body around, feeling if he has anything in his pockets. He manages to dig in his back pockets and finds a pocket knife. Was this in his pocket before?

“Greg, help me out here,” Nick whispers to Greg as he fumbles with the knife. He feels Greg’s hands grasp his, assisting Nick in opening the knife and cutting the rope. Nick feels a small prick on his skin as Greg cuts the rope.

“Orry,” Greg says in his muffled voice.

Nick flinches slightly at the pain, but at least he can’t see it. His hands are released from their bonds and he braces himself for what he is about to do. He moves his hands to the edge of the tape and grimaces as he rips it off, biting his lower lip to prevent from screaming. Tears cloud up his eyes before he is able to regain his vision. He turns to face Greg, who has masking tape on his mouth, and his hands tied in front of him. He must have known that he would scream if he removed the tape, and refrained from doing so.

“Greg, c’mon man, you can do it. Just try not to scream,” Nick whispers to him as he cuts the bonds on his hands.

Greg shuts his eyes tight as he slowly moves his hands to his mouth. He starts to slowly remove the tape, pausing in moments of extreme pain.

Nick, however, is silently crawling in his surroundings. They are in some kind of empty space that is moving. Nick finds what looks like an airplane window. He opens it and confirms his assumption. They were in the air. They must be on some kind of private jet or something, because it’s pretty hard to sneak two unconscious bodies onto a plane these days.

He could hear Greg whimper as he bites his lower lip to prevent from screaming. Nick bends down to him and gives him a reassuring look.

(some time later)

He can barely move his body. He can pound his fists on the hard, durable Plexiglas that surrounds him on all sides, but nothing more. Green light illuminates the space, causing his body to radiate like the Hulk. He can see the dark material tinted with green on the outside of the glass. He can also hear faint whirring, like a small fan.

Flash.

Suddenly, a burst of light. The green is now only a subordinate, engulfed by the overpowering blank light. The whirring has stopped. The cool air emitting from the fan is now gone. Now, he can only feel the heat coming from the light. He can feel the warm drops of sweat bead down his face and can also see the glass above him condense.

Is the light timed? Or is someone controlling it? He wants to ask out loud, doubting but hoping he’ll get an answer. The message on the tape had said nothing about a light, let alone a fan.

His right hand rests on a gun. Even the harsh metal is starting to heat up, inviting him to release some of that heat. Would they find him if he pulls the trigger? Does it even matter?

Does anybody know he’s missing?

His finger twitches on the trigger. He pulls the barrel of the suddenly heavy gun to his chin. If the light turns off the fan, then the light will be eating up the battery. If the battery runs out, no more light and no more fan. No more fan means no more air. And no more air means no more life...

So why wait until the battery runs out? Breathe quick, breathe slow, anyway he likes, he’s going to die here. They aren’t going to find him. Not alive, anyway. The air will run out eventually. Nobody’s really going to care. He might as well do it now and save himself and everyone else the misery.

“Don’t do it,” comes a voice. A girl’s voice, like one of an angel.

Flash.

The flash illuminates the room. Though Nick cannot see where he is, he knows with extremely high confidence that he is sure as hell not in his premature grave anymore. The flash starts to fade away, and Nick can finally see.

The room is dark, and only one light illuminates the space other than the fading flash. A dim light bulb is built into the wooden panel of the wall left to him. The whole room has wooden panel and the floor is a brown shag carpet. Nick lies on top of a bare mattress, his body lying in an extremely uncomfortable position. His hands are tied above him, just like Greg’s were. Only, the rope does not wrap around his hands. There is a shackle locked on both of his wrists, which are rubbing against each other painfully against the rusty metal. Some kind of chain is attached to this bracelet in a way that would make it impossible to undo the chain. The chain turns into a tight rope after about three links, and proceeds into the ceiling. He tries to move his united hands and is successful in discovering that the rope is in some kind of pulley system. And like some pulley systems, when you stop pulling, the rope snaps back up.

This is exactly what happened when Nick released the pressure of pulling his hands to him. He grimaces in pain and looks morosely at his hands. He can also feel the slight burn from when the tape had been on his eyes. He remembers the tears forming slowly in his eyes after he ripped it off, and also remembers helping Greg...

Greg. Where is he? Nick remembers being in the cargo hold...

(later...or earlier)

Nick saved Greg the rest of the pain by ripping the rest of the tape off at once. Greg almost let out a scream, but Nick covered his mouth.

 “Calm down, Greg, calm down. Somebody might hear us and we might be in trouble,” Nick whispered to him in a calmed tone. He nods, making sure him and Greg are making eye contact. “Okay?”

Greg nodded up and down, almost acting as if Nick was the kidnapper, telling him what to do.

“Good,” Nick whispered back. He stood up again, the area around his eyes tingling with pain. He put his finger to his small incisions in this area and watched the blood transfer to his fingers. He twitched slightly, scowling at his injury. At least it was better than not having vision. He also checked his pockets for anything else that would help them, but found nothing. He picked up the pocket knife and held it in one hand, his fingers forming a ready position to reveal the knife and cut anybody who decided to attack him.

Greg was still huddled up, shaken by what he had just gone through. Nick twitched a smile at him, but there was no response from Greg.

Nick decided to sit by the door and wait for the assailants to come and either check on them or take them to another location. If he could act like his hands were tied behind his back, maybe they’ll just figure that Greg removed the tape from his mouth and the tape from Nick’s eyes. He quickly signaled Greg to act like his hands were tied still and then he quickly put his behind his back. Greg managed to make it look like he had stuck his hands in between his kneeling legs.

Nick doesn’t know how long they sat in silence. Greg seemed like he was still traumatized by this sudden tension-built situation and Nick was just trying to figure out why they were there and who did this to them.

Suddenly, he hears a click come from the outside of the door. Greg, who had looked up, gave Nick a look, and Nick nodded. Greg suddenly collapsed to the floor, acting like he was about to have a seizure by shaking his body as much as he could.

The door opened and Nick looked up to see a man in a blank white mask, but wearing casual clothing. The man had buzz cut black hair. He seems pretty strong, maybe a veteran solider. Nick suddenly had doubts about having to take this man on, but he would have to. The man started walking over to Greg cautiously, seeing the fake convulsion.

“He’s a diabetic. He needs his insulin,” Nick quickly said, making up the story on the spot. As the kidnapper walked over to Greg, Nick sprang up, brandishing the knife and threw a punch at the assailant’s head. The man quickly reacted and punched Nick back. Nick started to swipe the knife back and forth as the man kicked, punched, anything he could do. Greg tried to do something as well, but his energy level prevented him from doing much.

Suddenly, Nick felt another prick, but this time in his shoulder. He slowly turned to see another man, also in a white mask, brandishing a dart gun. Nick felt another punch and then a kick as he slowly dropped to the ground.

Nick suddenly feels the pain from the struggle, grimacing as his stomach curdled. He is suddenly hungry, and craves the taste of water, any kind of water.

Flash.

The flash almost blinds Nick, who wasn’t expecting the flash coming from the wall in front of him. He shut his eyes tight, just like they did in the box when the light turned on. When the flash starts to fade, he opens his eyes, still squinting. He notices the camera lens built into the wall and also the flash built on top of it. Someone is taking pictures of him.

“What kind of pervert are you?” Nick asks rhetorically. It’s the question he always asks when he arrives at a crime scene especially that of a dead child, young woman, torn up man, tied up animals, molested child, kidnapping that ended in murder, or a family murdered.

 Only this time, Nick’s the victim.

Flash.

(greg’s turn...later)

A wave of icy water causes Greg to wake up. He chokes on the liquid that had entered his nostrils and mouth. He tries to move, but can only turn his head slightly. He manages to move his hands, but they hit some kind of durable surface. He cannot move his feet, either. He can’t life his head up, but is able to look down as well as he can. His body is surrounded by glass walls. From shoulders down, Greg is in a box.

Drip.

 A droplet of water falls between Greg’s eyes, causing him to blink reflexively. He looks up, but cannot see the origin of the water. Another drop falls in the exact same spot, and Greg has the exact same reaction.

“Who’s doing this?” he yells. “Hello? Anybody!”

There is no answer, and he didn’t really expect one. More drips follow the first two, and then another big splash.

 This time, the ice water enters in any opening it can. His eyes, his ears, his nose, his mouth; all of them receive the taste of the icy tap water. He swallows the portion that swam into his mouth, unable to o much else. He blinks his eyes repeatedly and shakes the water out of his ears as much as he can. He coughs up a little of it, his body slowly become numb. He feels very drowsy, as if he could fall asleep, but he can’t. The drops of water prevent him from falling asleep, waking him up with every attempt of falling into slumber. And then it hits him like a bullet from a loaded gun.

The water is drugged.

[baelllamyblake]

Worth it. ( Bellamy Blake x Reader )

Numbers :  #7 from this post & #18 from this post

Pairing : Bellamy Blake x Reader

Word Count : 2,191

A/N : You know... there’s so many inconsistencies with this story... but I was desperate to write another fanfic lol I think this story isn’t my best but I found a great song to write too!! I’m gonna write another song fic!!

FEEDBACK IS GREATLY APPRECIATED SO PLEASE FUCK ME UP WID IT

Your heart physically ached as you sprinted away from the delinquent camp, away from your newly found friends, and away from Bellamy. You were putting the teens and the camp itself in more and more danger each day you stayed. Indra was counting on you to build relationships with the sky people while gathering information to eventually hit them where it hurt most.

Tears briskly streamed down your cheeks as you sailed amongst the trees. How was Bellamy going to react to your sudden disappearance? You were reckless in your actions and somehow developed a strong affinity with the tan man. Even though you let yourself get caught spying on the youth base, Bellamy unnaturally offered mercy and compassion to you by nursing you back to health after the interrogation in the form of brutual torture. Bellamy seemed quite interested and invested in you but he would never admit it out loud.

Bellamy protected you from Murphy and his pack of dogs on multiple occasions. He let you sleep in his tent and left you morning rations for when you woke up. Bellamy checked up on you every chance he got while you were still in recovery, constantly pestering Clarke to let him see you. He would always sit next to you and conversate with you as you watched the teens rejoice in alcohol. You lowered the thick walls around your heart just enough to let Bellamy in and eventually you both found yourselves, naked and intertwined with each other in bed, sharing loving pecks every so often.

Yet, you were repaying your debt to Bellamy by running away without so much as a goodbye. You slowed down your grueling pace as you came across a smoothly flowing river, chest heaving heavily and muscles screeching in pain. Your knees gave out from under you and plopped against the white stones like a weight. You threw the water against your face and body, groaning loudly with relief. Your lungs seared like a raging fire and your legs were beyond exhausted. You stopped to stare into your blurry, watery reflection. You didn’t recognize yourself anymore, you were simply a manipulative creature, distorted by the idea of honor and respect.

You weren’t allowed to stop moving. You needed to get back home but was Tondc your home or was Bellamy your home? You rose to your full height, glancing back in the direction you came in for a few moments, desperately wishing Bellamy was standing there to ask you to come back. Your eyes met the overwhelmingly green forest and Bellamy was no where to be seen. You ripped your gaze from behind you back to what was in front of you, instantly feeling the same heartache the moment your boot waded into the river.

“ Hey, Clarke, have you seen Y/N? I’ve been looking all over for her. “ Bellamy questioned Clarke curiously, a small smile on his face. He had just come back from a unsuccessful hunting expedition and yearned to see your face again. Clarke perked up at Bellamy’s voice, quickly meeting his eyes with a worrisome look.

“ We can’t find Y/N. Anywhere. I think she might’ve escaped, Bellamy. “ Clarke hated to be the bearer of bad news but what else could she say? As soon as Clarke finished her sentence, it was almost like she could hear Bellamy’s heart crack in half.

Bellamy stared at Clarke in disbelief, his thoughts running at a hundred miles per hour. He couldn’t face the reality that you vanished from camp without telling anyone, not even him. Bellamy swallowed thickly before averting his gaze away from Clarke, blinking away the tears brimming at his waterline.

“ Send out search parties. “ Bellamy choked out, his voice gritty and dry like sand. He pushed past Clarke and exited the camp, sniffling with tears falling from his eyes. Bellamy knew in his heart that the search would be an ultimate failure but he needed to know why you left even if it killed him.

“ What did I do wrong? “ Bellamy cried out to himself, swiping away tears off his cheeks with his jacket sleeve. He had a terrible urge to run off in a random direction, hoping to find you nearby. Bellamy gritted his teeth tightly, torn between choices. His heart was screaming for him to leave but his mind was fighting for him to stay.

“ Great work, Y/N, “ Indra congratulated you proudly, patting you firmly on the shoulder. “ We shall plan an attack on the sky people soon. “ Indra arranged bluntly, flipping through your detailed notebook. Your head shot up at the mention of an ambush. You just condemned fourty-eight people to a brutual death, one of them being Bellamy.

“ Indra, no! You specifically asked for information on the sky people. You never said anything about an attack! They’re harmless! “ You refused in a snap, snatching the notebook out of Indra’s hands. Indra’s hand sliced through the air and across your face, a sharp pain electrifying your cheek.

“ Learn your place, child! Don’t ever cross me again. Now, Y/N, you will fight in this battle. The Sky People deserve no mercy. “ Indra asserted her authority in the form of a harsh slap. She yanked the notebook out of your hands and roughly pushed you aside, stomping out of the weapons tent. Your hand trailed to your cheek, a stifled cry stumbled out of your mouth. None of this would have ever happened if you didn’t fall in love with Bellamy.

The hour of the assault neared closer and closer. The weight on your heart grew heavier and heavier. The whole camp anxiously waited with bated breath, awaiting for the grounder army. You rode beside Indra on a horse of your own, the guilty feeling in your chest was consuming you whole. A whole army of 300 surrounded you, chanting out war cries sonorously, announcing your presence from miles away.

“ This is very honorable of you, Y/N. Sacrificing the bond between you and the sky people for the good of Trikru makes you a true warrior. “ Indra consoled you, a face like beautiful, unbreakable obsidian. You wanted to strangle Indra off her horse. There was nothing honorable about being forced to kill the love of your life. You peered at Indra and nodded respectively with a fake, tight-lipped smile. The smile faded instantly when you turned your head forward, you couldn’t possibly face Bellamy like this.

What was Bellamy going to think of you after he finds out that you’re Indra’s second in command? You were the best spy Trikru has ever seen, a master in the art of deception. It broke your heart thinking about how Bellamy was going to brand you a lying traitor. It terrified you to think about how Bellamy might think the connection between you was a total sham.

The walls of the camp came into view and the army stalled to a complete stop. You observed Indra speaking an inspiring war speech to the army, igniting a passionate fire in every warrior’s heart. Indra yelled out a stirring cry, inciting the army to barrel towards the camp at full speed.

God, so many of your people died. Some fell to the fates of land mines, some fell to the hands of the delinquents, and almost all fell to the fate of the scorching fire, killing them instantly. Indra and the rest of those who didn’t die in the pillar of fire retreated back to Tondc while you limped away haphazardly.

You found yourself standing in the middle of a clearing, lungs running short on oxygen and covered in foreign blood. You were slowly bleeding out from a wound just under your right ribcage and it was started to take a toll on your mind. You lost everything: your blood family, Indra, and Bellamy. Your mind wandered to desperately hopeful thoughts of Bellamy scooping you up in his arms like a hero before fading to complete black.

Bellamy sprinted through the forest, jumping over tree roots and fallen logs. Him and Finn got separated trying to get away from the fire unscathed. It felt like Bellamy had been running for hours, trying to get away from an invisible enemy. He screeched to a halt as he ran into a clearing with a body dead center. Bellamy warily stepped closer and closer to your body, swallowing the large lump in his throat.

“ Y/N? “ Bellamy whispered to himself on the verge of tears. His heart was bouncing around in his ribcage. He crouched over you and placed a warm hand on your cold bicep, gently rolling you onto your back. You stirred slightly in Bellamy’s hands, you were pale but still clinging to life. Bellamy’s own tears dripped onto your blood-covered shoulder before he hoisted you into his arm and delivered you to Camp Jaha.

You jolted awake, taking in the strange surroundings while inhaling a big gasp of air. You were lying in a medical tent? You rapidly lifted up your shirt, revealing a slightly agitated yet skillfully stitched wound. You briskly exited the tent and entered a bustling camp, full of peering eyes. “ Hey, take it easy. You need rest and you also don’t want to ruin those stitches, now do you? Let me check on them. “ An older, brunette woman spoke comfortingly as she pushed you back into the tent. You assumed that she was the healer that fixed you up.

“ Did you come from space? “ You asked curiously, taking a seat back on the hospital bed. The woman manuevered around the objects upon the table before standing in front of you. She motioned you to lift up your shirt to thoroughly examine your wound.

“ Yes, we crashed landed in The Ark. Obviously, you saw the huge, smokey heap when you came out. “ The woman verified and dabbed a liquid onto your stitches. You watched her work at your stitches intently before your mind wandered to how Bellamy was doing.

“ Where’s Bellamy? “ You quizzed the doctor, your heartrate increasing with the mention of his name.

“ Bellamy’s out at the moment but he said he would be back soon to check up on you. “ she answered before rising to her full height. Your heart rate intensified greatly when the brunette said he would be coming back.

“ I’ll let him know that you’re awake, honey. Just rest for now, alright? “ The woman ordered firmly before leaving the tent. You looked up at the ceiling of the tent, contemplating of what to say when Bellamy came back.

Anxiety began to set in the longer you waited for Bellamy. What if he was never coming back? Maybe you should iust run away again, it would’ve been for the best. “ Ugh, God, he’s going to hate me. “ You groaned out impatiently, head falling into your hands. Your heart wanted to fly out of your chest because it couldn’t take waiting anymore.

“ I love you. “ A deep voice spoke from the entrance of the tent. You perked up and shot up from the bed. Bellamy was standing before you and you were at a loss for words.

“ I-I’m sorry. I-I never meant hurt you or anyone. “ You stuttered out nervously, afraid that Bellamy could hear your heart beating from inside your chest. He took a few steps forward while you backed away in fear.

“ Was it all just an act? “ Bellamy’s voice was almost a whisper. His worried eyes bore into your features but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Not after what you did him and the delinquents. It was blatant that he knew you were a world-class spy. You shook your head, unable to get the words you fervently wished to say to him. Bellamy’s hand shot out to grasp your wrist tightly. Trying to yank your wrist away was an effort rendered futile.

“ Y/N. I was so angry at you for leaving. I don’t want to feel that anymore. Can I kiss you? “ Bellamy asked desperately, pouring his heart and soul into the last four words. Tear immediately began to fall from your eyes as you closed the distance between you and him. The kiss left you breathless and an emotional mess. Bellamy chuckled lowly as he wiped away the tears on your pink cheeks with his thumb.

“ I love you so much, Bellamy but you know I put you and the others in danger by being here. “ You sniffled sadly while wrapping your arms around Bellamy’s warm neck. He brought you in for a tight, loving hug and refused to let go.

“ It’s a risk I’ll have to take if it means that you’ll stay by my side. “ Bellamy understood what he was doing and what the consequences were. He kept you in his embrace while planting a kiss on the side of your head.

Why would he abandon the one thing that made the ground worth it?