(a/n: backstreets back ALRIGHT yo what can i say... once i otp, i otp and once i write for that otp, i write for that otp. deal. or dont. this is a democracy. anyway i was inspired and i love bellarke so... well... theres this.
i hope anyone likes this:) otherwise this could be fairly awkward:) okay:)
based on this start-your-story-like-this-prompt: Every story begins somewhere, usually with a shared look from across the room and the exchange of names. Theirs starts with an abduction and a set of handcuffs.
song in the title is lonesome when you go by bob dylan, but i listened to miley's version and a lot of other stuff if you were interested)
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Every story begins somewhere, usually with a shared look from across the room and the exchange of names. Theirs starts with an abduction and a set of handcuffs.
"Oof," she groans, abruptly jolting awake as a block of human flesh is shoved into her already injured side, covering her eyes from the bright light. There's a clicking noise, a pull on her arm, more clicking and then the door closes again. It's not like she'd expected to be briefed for thirty-five minutes on whoever was just dumped beside her, but a quick introduction would've been nice. Now her mind's just going crazy with conspiracy theories, he's-probably-going-to-murder-me and teenage girl thoughts, which are basically synonyms for one another.
Squinting her eyes at the darkness, she tries to make out any sort of recognizable feature, but it's useless - he's on his stomach, arm covering his face. All she actually sees is curly hair and a broad back - which aren't actual distinguishable characterizations of serial killers, but still, like, he could totally be. She'd been not-so-blissfully passed out seconds before, and now she was cuffed to a dirty sink and an unconscious man who or may not be a serial killer. As if this day could get any better.
She doesn't know how much time passes before she gets bored and starts wondering about the man beside her. Is he kidnapped, like her (she isn't one to assume just like that, but something about forcefully being grabbed from behind while innocently and totally unawarely leaving your internship, endearingly being awarded the title 'spoiled little rich bitch' and shoved into a van before being knocked unconscious makes her take the possibility she was kidnapped into light consideration) or, cue doom thinking, is this an inside job and do they want to uncover as much information about her parents as possible before they off her?
Damn, does she needs to get out more and to stop watching vague foreign horror movies to laugh at - nothing like netflix and actually chill by herself every weekend to give a girl terrible ideas. She should at least invite Wells to come watch with her next time.
Deciding that what the hell, my mom's a cheap bitch who will over her dead body let the terrorists win so I'm going to die anyway, she pokes his side, carefully… until there's no response and carefully can go screw itself.
His body finally starts jerking a little, free hand reaching down lazily to his ribs, there's groaning and grunting and a lot of manly, bear-related noises she doesn't know what to call, "O - I told you I'll get you your fucking pancakes."
"With butter and chocolate syrup? You're the best," she deadpans sarcastically, stuffing her hand under her jacket like he'd didn't already know she had been jabbing him in the side like a petulant child would jab his mother at a candy store. Or she would, really. What? She and candy have a longstanding, tumultuous and passionate love affair. Age is just a number.
His head snaps towards her sharply, as if he's just now realizing he's on the floor next to her - Stranger Staring At Him Like He's A Monkey (she's had worst first impressions, honestly) - and not in the comfort of his own bed, in O's arms, whoever he or she may be. Like he gets, judging from the blood now on his fingers, punched to sleep every night. He just groans some more, reaching for the back of his head, which is also bloody. If he hadn't just offered her pancakes, she would've thought he was a mute.
"Fuck," he mutters, closing his eyes with a loud sigh. Like he can just wish or imagine her away. Uncool, dude, seriously uncool… But also, if he can, that would be kind of cool. Socially speaking though - not so much. Kind of rude.
"Clarke," she offers as some kind of peace treaty, and although it's not a polite smile kind of occasion, she has been conditioned to do so, mouth stretching without even having to try. Even if they're handcuffed together.
"Bellamy," he grumbles, like it goes against everything he believes in to talk to her. There's a pause that he's probably using to muster together enough motivation to turn over before he slowly but surely sits up. He uses his free hand to rub his face, eyebrows furrowed. There's a cut on his cheekbone, but he doesn't wince when he touches it, to which she has to give him credit because it looks super painful.
"Look, this isn't what you think, princess," he spits, clenching his jaw as he supports the arm cuffed to hers. From the looks of it, his shoulder's dislocated. "I don't have a rich daddy or mommy that's going to pay five million for me to get out of here all fresh-faced and healthy and buy me a pearl necklace to cover for any traumatic injuries I may or may not have suffered."
"Okay," she says, a little taken at back at first (she doesn't like pulling the do you know how rich I am card but who is he? like who even? and what's up with the seriously dated ideas of the rich? pearl necklaces? seriously? were they transported back to 1928?) as she licks her lips, brow furrowing together, "first of all, you don't know me, stupid asshole. Second of all - you don't know me."
Okay, she knows cooler profanity than 'stupid asshole', she's not six years old, but his crystal clear inability to judge her by anything else than her name is kind of making her profanity-filter work for the first time in her life. It's not that she doesn't know people judge her because of her family, it's just that no one's actually ever said it to her face. Etiquette and all.
"All I did was tell that absolute piece of shit, Murphy-" he grits his teeth together, temporarily getting distracted by his anger before continuing after a moment, "that I refused to keep you hostage, and now I'm in here with you. I think it's established I'm a stupid asshole."
"You know the guy who kidnapped me?"
He looks at her like he's deciding whether he should continue to speak to her or not. "Yeah, we work together-" Let her ask you this: was she far off with her serial killer theory? Not so paranoid now, huh. "-but we only do petty stuff, like sell drugs. Or used to. I don't know, he's - he's gone completely fucking crazy."
She hikes an eyebrow, the cut on her forehead stinging just a little, "Right. So you're okay with drug dealing but abducting people conflicts with your morals?"
"Pretty much," he retorts coldly, then, like he's trying to prove he's not a complete dipshit, "I have a sister, I would -" he looks conflicted, swallowing tightly, before he decides on, "loose it if anyone took her."
Deciding she's not going to find a criminal relatively adorable, she opts to change the subject, "Where are we?"
He sends her a suspicious look, to which she rolls her eyes, "Money doesn't buy you ESP, dude. It's not like I can send my parents a telepathic message like 'hey, it's me, your spoiled rich daughter, you know the one with the pearl necklaces, this is my location'."
He purses his lips, but if he thinks she's at least somewhat trustworthy it doesn't show on his face. "We're in Murphy's bathroom. East-side of town."
"What? You're telling me this is a bathroom that people actually use? I thought we were in an abandoned warehouse that no breathing human had stepped foot in since the nineties and was inhabited by wild animals and disease-ridden micro-organisms." So she has given this some thought.
"I know it's not what you're accustomed to, princess, but we don't all get born with a eight-number bank account to our name."
Uhm, okay maybe she sounded a little pretentious, but basic hygiëne didn't require money - just water and soap. The floor is literally sticky, and if she's going to think about what that Murphy guy did to make it sticky, she's going to scream.
She huffs, a little amused if anything, "What, you think I shower with 200 dollar mineral water and dry myself off with extinct animal skin?"
Finally, there's the tiniest hint of a smirk as he looks up at the ceiling, leaning his head back and probably deliberately avoiding eye-contact to hide he's not completely emotionless.
It's quiet for a while (time is relative ever since she's been here, but she's pretty sure at least an hour has passed because she's starting to feel hungry), before she starts yelling at Murphy to let her go to which, after she's a little more hoarse than usual and been at it like a schizophrenic maniac for at least fifteen minutes, Bellamy informs her they're out, since, apparently, holding someone for ransom doesn't automatically mean you're excluded from your regular shady illegal stuff, like dealing drugs. After an indignant huff and some more silence, she then looks at his shoulder, casually, like he hasn't been making tiny painful sighs the entire time, "You know that's dislocated, right?"
He searches her face, then looks down at his painful joint. "To preserve some of my fragile masculinity, Murphy didn't knock me out by himself. He had help. Three people knocked me out."
Not that she thinks he's trying to impress her or anything but it's kind of cute how his neck's flushed and his chest is puffed a little.
"I intern at my mother's hospital -" he raises his eyebrows, but doesn't comment, which might be physically hurting him from the looks of it, "I can help you, if you want." He looks at her for a long time, like he's running some internal survey on whether or not to trust her with his shoulder and it makes her feel all kinds of uncomfortable. "I mean, your fragile masculinity might suffer a little but I can like, watch you beat up a puppy or something later, you know, to even it out."
He chuckles and it's low and soft and for some reason, she's blushing. It's shady that she's blushing right after she made him laugh, she admits, but she'll find a completely reasonable scientific explanation for it later.
"Fine, I'm going to need both arms to murder Murphy anyway."
He's wearing dark blue v-neck t-shirt, so it's fairly easy to get access to his shoulder, even with one hand cuffed to his. His skin is warm and super tan and for a second she gets distracted by its softness until she realizes he's looking at her and severely hopes he thinks she's just encouraging herself mentally, instead of staring at his really firm bicep. She clears her throat awkwardly, finding just enough courage to look at him.
"So, you thought it was a fantastic idea to pick a fight and get yourself thrown in here with me-" she raises her eyebrows, using their conversation as a distraction as she pulls his shoulder away and pushes it back, quick and steady, "opposed to just walking away and calling the cops, or you know, something?"
He inhales sharply, eyes closed in excruciating pain for a moment and for some dumb reason (stockholm syndrome, probably), she thinks it's good idea to keep her hand wrapped around his arm. "Or something," he breathes finally, chest heaving heavily as he leans his head back against the bathroom tiles.
After a moment of him catching his breath and her shamelessly staring at his face, he looks back at his arm. She reacts by quickly pulling her hand away, resting both of them in her lap. Smooth, Griffin, super smooth.
"So…" she starts, trying to dissolve some of the awkward tension and maybe to gain some selfish information, "O - is she your sister? The one you mentioned?"
She stares at the door directly in front of them (one she could easily kick down if it wasn't for being cuffed to a damn sink), as to not to give him any ideas, crossing her legs.
"Yeah," he says, and for some reason he's smirking, "Octavia. She's about your age."
Great, so she reminds him of his sister. Not… that it matters… but, still.
"That door is just taunting us," she sighs, and when she gets no reaction, she adds, "If only I could use my stacks of money to throw holes through it."
"Fine, I'm sorry I was such a judgemental stupid asshole," he laughs, shaking his head, he puts his (good) hand over his heart, feigning pity, "But you are wearing that look of 'total discontent and deep inner sorrow that reflects the inescapable shallowness of your isolated life'."
"Screw you," she chuckles, elbowing him in the ribs, "I just have resting bitch face, not a serious case of Poor Little Rich Girl." Still, after a moment of comfortable silence, she feels like defending herself, "I know it's easy for me to say money doesn't buy happiness, but it really doesn't."
He cringes, and she almost regrets starting off her plea for the Wealthy And Depressed with such a cliché.
"Please don't tell me a sob story about how your mom is always working and doesn't notice your C- for History, or how screwed up it was that Dolce and whatever-the-fuck didn't have your five-thousand dollar purse in black last week, or, or how the media won't leave you alone," he snorts, but it's not completely humourless, she thinks, "That would drastically ruin your badass cred."
She snorts, giving him a disbelieving look, "You think I'm badass?"
"Hey, you called me out on my shit and re-located my shoulder with your bare hands - it doesn't get much more badass than that."
She smiles, all teeth and pride, before she dials the happiness down a notch. No need for weakness this soon into their abduction.
"No, it's not - I know I'm very privileged and I don't have a my-parents-don't-love-me-complex where I mess up purposely to attract their attention and there's a very likely future conversation in rehab or on a Ivy League quad where I yell things like 'you were never there' and 'that's your dream, mom, not mine', but.."
One of those things isn't too farfetched, but still. She'd hate to be the stereotypical rich frat-fuck-boy or trust-fund-bitch.
"But?" He turns his head, still against the tiles, eyebrows raised challengingly.
"There's a lot of… expectations. I don't know… The first and last time I brought a girlfriend home, all innocent and naive, my mom had her transfer to a different school, in another state," she admits, bitterly. It's not like she had plans to marry Lexa just yet, but they were girlfriends, in that naive state of 'we're fifteen and going to be together forever'. It had hurt, like a serious bitch. "I know it's not the same as having to fight to put food on the table for your family, or having to decide between buying clothes for the winter or sending your kids to college, but it was..."
She stares at her hands, playing with the hem of her shirt, trying to find the right words. She shrugs it off, placing her hands beside her to keep from fidgeting and sitting up slightly.
"You shouldn't have to apologize, I was just being a dick," he says, with some difficulty-voice a little uneven-his pinky brushing against her coincidentally, "Just because you were born in a certain family that happens to have money doesn't mean you don't get to have feelings, that's a shitty thing for me to even imply."
"It's okay... After that I just stuck to the not-so-gay and proper side of my bisexuality, which is really weak, I know, but -"
"No, I get it. Sometimes it's useless to try and fight something."
She offers him a small, thankful smile, putting her fingers over his and squeezing, once, before letting go.
He swallows hard, licking his lips as he looks at her before forcing a grin on his face, "Except Murphy. I'm going to fight the shit out of him."
It sounds a little awkward, but she still laughs, deep and a little hoarse, and she feels a little hot, "Except Murphy."
"He's worse than fucking Tantalus," he grumbles, fists balling at his sides, brows furrowed together.
"Tantalus?" Who's she to complain about names, honestly?
"Greek Mythology," he answers, like that explains everything and solves every problem in the world.
"Uhm, yeah, totally. Tantalus. Is that the one with the snakes as hair?"
His head snaps to her, eyes wide as if she said she was into weird sex, checking to see if she's serious. "Chill, I'm might be pretty but I'm not dumb. I know that's Medusa. Admittedly, I don't know Tantalus."
He looks unsure, doubtful before explaining, "Tantalus was hosting a barbecue when he decided it was be super-funny to murder his own son, cook him, and then secretly feed him to his guests."
To be fair that sounds like something Murphy would do, even if she doesn't know him and totally called Bellamy an asshole for judging her like an hour ago, but he did kidnap her, so she feels like she gets to be an asshole here.
"What happened to him?" She tries to sound serious and interested, and she is, but the look on his face is just too hilarious and she has to bite down on her tongue to keep from laughing.
"First he was tortured, then resurrected and then Zeus chucked him off a hill."
Finally, she erupts in a ton of giggles (not that she actually giggles, but still), "Oh my god, Bellamy, are you a -" He groans, "Don't." She smirks, "history nerd?"
"So I like the history channel and yes, I like to read dumb books about mythology, let me live," he jokes, tone still grumpy but his grin giving him away. He actually loves history so much that he's not even ashamed of it, that's like, the most adorable thing ever.
Before she has any time to process the fact she thought that about him, the door swings open, revealing what must be, screamo music inserted, Murphy.
Bellamy opens his mouth, and if she had to guess, a slurr of profanities would've followed, if it hadn't been for the other male cutting him off.
"Relax," he snaps, kneeling down next to Clarke so Bellamy can't reach him, "We're here to-what the hell!"
Oh, right, she headbutted him mid sentence.
"I was just going to let you out into the living room!"
"Fuck you, you abducted me!" She spits, and then actually spits into his direction, feeling a tiny bit proud as she watches the blood ooze out of his nose.
(Her rage is somewhat cooled after physically harming him so her heart is no longer pounding as hard in her ears which makes it possible for her to notice Bellamy is laughing, like really laughing, loud and almost choking on it.)
"Okay, fine, so we're even," he barks, more into Bellamy's direction than hers, no longer bothering to stop the bleeding, "Now can I trust you that you won't kick me in the teeth when I try to uncuff you?"
"Of course," she smiles sweetly, holding up her hands in defense, and as soon as he starts kneeling back down, she lifts her own knee into his groin.
The sound he tried to make gets stuck in the back of his throat and he sounds like a dying whale in the process. Serves him right.
"You abducted me, dickweed. We're never going to be even."
"Be like that," he spits once he's able to speak, shoulders hunched as he limps his way back out of the room.
"That, that was fuck-fucking awesome," Bellamy's still laughing, and it makes a smile stretch across her face as he reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder. He collects himself a little, before adding, "I told you you were badass."
"If he for one second thinks I'm going into his living room without you, he's got another thing coming, and with another thing, I mean another knee."
She doesn't really realize the weight of her words until they're already out of her mouth and into the open air between them. She hasn't even known him that long and here she is, saying shit like not going anywhere without him. Which is true, because he's the only one she trusts at the moment, but also very weird.
But, if he noticed she even said it, he doesn't show it and after a few minutes go by, Murphy comes back, toilet-paper stuffed up his nose and flanked by two other guys.
Bellamy and her exchange a look and she snorts, causing him to go off into his next laughing fit. "Ha-ha, very funny. You almost broke my nose, bitch."
"If you come closer, I can apologize accordingly," she bites back with a smirk as he nods for the two other guys to take her while he goes over to Bellamy - dumb move. He might still be injured, but he still has a couple of inches on Murphy, not per se in height, but definitely in breadth.
She's already kicking and screaming for them to let her go, feet planted firmly against the door-opening when she hears a loud clang, looking over her shoulder, she sees they're fighting.
Bellamy's winning, until Murphy punches him his already-sore shoulder and he loses it for a second, probably seeing black from pain, giving the sleazeball enough time to knock him over the head with a beer bottle. He goes down soon after that.
.
They're tied to wooden chairs, hands behind their backs while the rest of them chill on the couch, like there isn't an abducted girl in their midst.
She fiddles around, pulling the rope around her wrist, hoping it'll let loose somewhere - spoiler alert: it doesn't.
"Were you a boy scout?" She blurts out, aggravated, not even hiding the fact she's pulling on the rope. "Or did you sail? That's more likely. You look like you had a bad childhood."
"Shut it," he retorts after a pause, lamely and Dumb and Dumber on his left and right respectively exchange glances. She knows she shouldn't but she wants to know how far she can push him before he breaks. From the looks of it, it won't be too long.
"You know, that makes me wonder, like, I know you probably fished this rope out of a trashcan next to a harbor, or like stole it out of some grandma's purse. But, where did you even get those cuffs, huh? Do you have connections with the police? Don't tell me you had to cut pink fur off the sides."
His neck flushes, but he doesn't say anything, completely pretending to be focused on his game on the TV, it's about shooting people and racing around in sportscars, so the usual.
Clarke huffs, once, then again, just because. That's fucking disgusting. The fuck. She just can't even - she can't dignify that with a response, she won't.
The living room is even dirtier than the bathroom: a trashcan in the corner that looks more than a game of jenga than anything, at least five empty pizza box collecting mold on the floor and coffee table, and empty beer bottles spread all over. It looks suspiciously like… no, it couldn't be.
Bellamy is still unconscious, so since she has no one else to talk to, she decides to go after her hunch. "There's-There's absolutely no way this could be true, but I have to ask. Are you guys… in college?"
"It's none of your business."
"You're eating popcorn out of a shoebox and your guy in the corner is warming up his chinese food with a blowdryer, which for the sake of my sanity, I won't question why you have one to begin with. You guys are so in college."
It kind of makes sense as to why he kidnapped her. One night after a fight with her mom, as an act of defiance she decided she was going to pay for college herself. After a little research she realized that wasn't a realistic possibility for jobless, nepotic Clarke. Autonomy was a bitch to teenagers.
Still, they were a bunch of pieces of literal shit.
"Murphy," she hears Bellamy mutter, which means he's starting to regain some sort of consciousness and absolute disgust for his (ex?)-co-worker, eerily calm, he adds, "When I get out of this chair I'm going to put my foot so far up your ass that even more shit will start coming out of your mouth, and then, I'm going to fucking murder you."
"Wait until I tell you where he got the handcuffs," Clarke jokes dryly, face stoic. She shivers slightly, imagining Murphy tied to a bed with pink fur circling his wrists. She had to touch those, for hours!
"If you hadn't felt the need to be her prince charming on the white horse all of a sudden then this never would've happened," Murphy bites back, throwing popcorn in his mouth. "Besides, I'll probably let you guys go as soon as we receive the money from Griffin's parents."
"How much?" She asks, curiously. It's not everyday you can find out how much you're worth now, is it.
He stuffs more popcorn in his mouth, not even bothering to wait until he's swallowed when he inform them, proudly, "ten-thousand."
"Oh my fucking god," she laughs, like actually cackling as all color drains from Bellamy's face. "Ten-thousand? You asked multi-millionaires for ten-thousand in return for their daughter? You're such a fucking idiot, Murphy."
Clarke manages to collect her breath long enough to tell him, "No wonder they haven't written you a check yet, they must think my friend Jasper is pulling another one of his elaborate jokes." Then, small laugh, "you probably have more luck," she tries really hard to collect herself, "more luck pickpocketing my dad," she snorts, "my dad on, on," there's tears in her eyes, "on the street."
"Shut the fuck up," he mumbles, putting his shoebox down next to him and crossing his arms over his chest like a toddler in his time-out corner. This is only funnier to Clarke, and she can't hold it any longer.
This is the best thing ever. Minus the kidnapping part, then, but still.
"Maybe we just need to get some evidence of foul play to them," Murphy bites back eventually, sending her a glare. Her laughter dies down, eyes narrowing into slits - she's about ready for a full verbal smack down, when Bellamy cuts in.
"Don't you dare touch her."
"You can't really protect your little girlfriend when you're tied up," he smirks like a cheshire cat and it's kind of super annoying. Like, she doesn't even think she hates him, he's just hella irritating.
"Try me," he challenges him, eyes narrowed and entire body tense.
"Yeah," Clarke echoes, voice sharp, "Try him. Meanwhile, I can debate with your two buddies whether or not your parents are siblings."
One of them actually snickers and Murphy kicks him in the shin, like… He's not even trying and he finishes the debate for her.
He goes back to playing his beloved game of GTA, shoving the shoebox in his lap while his two sidekicks sit beside him idly, giving her and Bellamy room for silent communication that somehow just conveys into one word: together.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" She asks abruptly, not looking away from a frowning Bellamy until she gives him an encouraging nod. He obviously doesn't agree with her making the first move, but there's rope digging in her wrists and she doesn't like being told what to do and she actually has to pee anyway, so let's just say she has a lot of motivation to get the hell out of here.
"No," is Murphy's immediate answer, not even bothering to look away from his TV.
"If you want me to piss in this chair that's fine with me, but you should know you can't get the stain or the smell out of textured carpet."
"Shit, fine," he whines like a petulant child, "Atom, take her to the bathroom."
God, is he stupid or what?
Atom does what he says, and as soon as he unties her arms, she elbows him in the chest before sucker-punching him straight in the face (which really honestly hurts like shit), immediately kneeling down to untie Bellamy. He trips the third guy so Clarke has enough time to get the knot out and from there it's just a lot of yelling and screaming and Bellamy punching Murphy and more yelling until they settle on:
"I'll tell the cops I was with Bellamy the entire time, paint him off as my secret boyfriend because my parents don't approve or something, and you took advantage by extorting my parents. Extortion isn't a felony so you'll probably get like two months of community service and a criminal record, but you most likely already have one of those."
"Or, I can just keep you here."
"Yeah, there's absolutely no flaws in that plan," she snorts humorlessly, crossing her arms over her chest, "Good luck with trying to contain me. Abduction is thirty to fifty, easily. If I cry a little on the stand, you'll get life."
"Wow, you're cold," Bellamy deadpans cynically as they both stare Murphy down, Atom already nervously tapping his foot behind him, the other one, Colin she thinks his name is, holding his breath. They're like one of those ridiculous tag teams she watches on TV when she's bored, and they could be named after the biggest greek assholes, like Zeus and Athena. She's in too deep, man - if she told Raven she would be hearing about this every birthday, wedding and christmas for the next ten to twenty years ("ha Ha Clarke likes a boy").
"Whatever." Clarke smirks at him, all smugly politeness and 'fuck you, I win', earning herself a tall, bony middle-finger on Murphy's part.
"And I'm taking your playstation," Bellamy informs him, pulling it out of the socket and stuffing it under his arm. The other guy opens his mouth to protest, but he gets cut off by a challenging glare from Clarke's side.
They're barely outside before she sends him a blinding smirk, knocking her shoulder into his good one. "We should do this more often. It feels awesome."
"It's the adrenaline, you'll probably need to call one of your two therapists when it wears off," he teases, and he's tall and so, so handsome and she likes him and she does most definitely not want this to be the last time she sees him, but she's too chicken to tell him that. She'll fight a guy, before she tells him she likes hanging around him.
"Right, because I have a second therapist to complain about the first."
She smiles at him, unapologetic and bright, and he grins back, lazily before leaning down and connecting their lips. They're kissing. They're kissing - rough and wanting, and damn, at this point she'll be reminding Raven to make fun of her for her.
"What was that for?" She asks, a little out of breath and completely enamoured.
He shrugs, rubbing his thumb over her cheek softly, like he's testing out if it feels the same way as it looks, "Because."
"What?" Her lips twitch with a teasing smile, voice sarcastic, "Just in case I go back to my castle and forget all about you over caviar and 5000 dollar Chardonnay, asleep on my diamond cushions and pea-free golden mattress, being flown around in my private, personalized pink helicopter?"
He smirks, brushing some hair out of her face, "Just in case."
.
(a/n hey! ! ! dont kick my ass i love to hate john murphy and hes actually one of my favorite characters post-s1 but lets not pretend he isnt a little rebellious puppy
hope you liked it tho:)
a comment would be ballin *heart eyes inserted* )