Friday nights with the Blakes and the Miller-Greens (as Octavia so likes to call them when she doesn't go full Brangelina by calling them 'Minty') become a fixture in Clarke's life before she even has time to realise it is happening. She gets used to it, spending a few hours with the gang, beers and pizzas at the ready, as they share jokes and laugh and even play video games sometimes, when Bellamy isn't too much of an old grandpa about it. She likes it, likes the regularity of it, and soon finds herself looking forwards to sharing this or that story with Miller, a certain piece of gossip with Octavia, a kind smile with Monty.

What she doesn't get used to, on the other hand, is the parade of girls Bellamy brings back home all the other nights. And she gets it, she totally does – because, seriously, have you seen Bellamy? The guy is sex on legs, and has every right to take advantage of his good DNA pattern.

Still, it's always a bit awkward when she's eating breakfast and some girl stumbles out of Bellamy's room, clothes barely on and eyes growing wide when they spot her, mouthful of cereals in her mouth. Some freak out on the spot, afraid she's the girlfriend and so a murderer in the making. Others indulge her in the best walk of shame of all times, and Clarke watches as they leave the apartment, staring at the floor as they mutter some words – a goodbye or a sorry, depending of the day, of the girl.

It is one such morning, book propped up on the bottle of milk for her to read and eat her cereals at the same time (the story is so overwhelming she wants to finish it as soon as possible), when the door to Bellamy's room opens and closes softly. Too softly for her caveman of a roommate, that's for sure. Still, when Clarke looks up to the other woman, she doesn't expect the Latina beauty standing there in nothing but barely-there shorts and a tank top, dark hair tumbling down her shoulders and eyes too bright for such an early hour. Urgh, sex hair and morning after glow looking good on her where Clarke would look like she spent a night under a bridge, life is so unfair.

"Hey," she says as she goes for the fridge, like she simply belongs here, like she's always done that. Clarke likes her on the spot, even more so when she grabs the last cup of Greek yoghurt, the ones Bellamy pretends he buys for Octavia because he's too much of a manly man to admit he has the weirdest guilt pleasures on earth. Damn, he will be pissed. Good.

Latina wonder leans with her elbows on the kitchen counter as she eats her yoghurt, and Clarke pretends not to stare at the way her mouth wraps around the spoon every so often, because she smells of sex and Bellamy. Clarke isn't that desperate as to pick her only night stands in the list of one night stands of her roommate, and so she can't allow her mind to wander right now.

She really can't…

"I definitely picked the wrong roommate."

… Unless she can.

Clarke's snaps up at the sentence, eyes growing wide as she meets the other girl's eyes. There's the ghost of a smirk on her lips even as she takes another mouthful of yoghurt, like she's proud of herself.

"Cute," is the answer she gets, but not from Clarke.

Both girls look to Bellamy as he enters the room, wearing nothing but boxer briefs even if Clarke told him times and times again that clothes weren't invented for nothing. The other girl rolls her eyes.

"Whatever keep you asleep at night, darling," the girl goes on, pouring a fair dose of sarcasm in her every word. She blows Bellamy a kiss as she stands straighter. "Anyway, I should go. Thanks for the breakfast and whatever last night was."

It's Bellamy's time to roll his eyes – Clarke knows him well enough by now to know that his ego doesn't bruise easily, especially not when sex is involved. Which, gross. She shakes her head at the thought, and startles when she sees the girl handing her a piece of paper.

"My number," she says with a wink, before barking something in Spanish (something that definitely sounds like a Spanish curse) when Bellamy tries to snatch it from her grip. "Not for you, I said."

So Clarke takes the piece of paper. A number is indeed scribbled there, and with it a name – Raven. When she looks up again, Raven winks at her before she presses two fingers to her temple in a lazy salute. She is gone in a matter of seconds, leaving Clarke to stare at the spot where she was standing seconds before, and to wonder if the last five minutes were real. Because they sure don't feel real to her.

"You got game, princess," Bellamy says, even as he tries to take the number from her again. Child.

So, equally as childish, she pokes out her tongue to him. "Better game than you, huh?"

He simply laughs and shakes his head as he turns around to make some coffee. Not once does he ask about the fact that it's a girl, or that Clarke slips the number in the pocket of her hoodie. That, more than anything else, unsettles her.

…

He drags her to a bar two days later, because he spent the day locked in the library and she had the most dreadful day at work – she spilled a cup of coffee all over a customer's lap, and it is a miracle that she wasn't fire on the spot – so they both need to unwind tonight. Which of course involves alcohol and loud music, because Bellamy wouldn't have it any other way. Especially for the alcohol part.

He's twirling his glass of whiskey in his hand, one elbow on the bar counter, as he looks at the crowd around them. The bar isn't as busy as it would be expected on a Saturday night, but still busy enough for Bellamy to have his I-am-a-man-on-a-mission face on as he scans every face with a frown marring his brow.

"So, what are you into?" he asks as last.

Clarke almost chokes on her own drink. "Are you playing wingman?"

"Yeah." He rolls his eyes, as if the answer is that obvious. "You've been living at my place for two months, and I know for a fact you haven't gotten some for just as long. That's just sad."

She doesn't know if she wants to be offended or embarrassed. A bit of both, perhaps, and she drowns it all in a large gulp of alcohol. It burns her throat and settles warming in her belly, but does nothing to her nerves.

"I know you're into pretty brunettes, obviously…" Bellamy goes on, and she fights against a blush at the memory of Raven's never-ending legs, so long and so tanned and – yeah. "Blondes? Redheads?"

"Are you only looking for girls?"

It startles him, slightly, as he finally looks to her. There is a frown above his eyes as he tries to read whatever message he's looking for in her eyes, and she arches a brow in reply – a silent dare.

He sighs. "I won't pick a guy for you."

"Pity."

Bellamy takes a sip of his drink, but that doesn't quite hide the smile on his lips.

Everything about this moment is surreal to Clarke, even if she knows Bellamy's best friend is most definitely in a relationship with another guy, and so her roommate might be somewhat used to that kind of things. She isn't. She isn't because her mother never quite got over her perfect daughter coming out to her, she isn't because people often mislabel her sexuality, erase it, put her into neat little boxes she doesn't want to be put in. That's just the way it is and, as annoying and frustrating and awful as it gets, she's used to it. She's used to it all.

What she isn't used to are people like Bellamy – people who don't ask questions, who roll with it like she just told them her favourite colour is blue and that's it.

So she downs her glass, for good measure.

"Brunettes," she says after while, her voice sounding broken and uncertain even to her own ears. "I'm into brunette, regardless of gender."

Bellamy nods, scans the room once more, points her to a pretty girl with brown hair and the shortest skirt Clarke has ever seen.

…

She doesn't come home with the brunette.

She comes home drunk, with the arm of an equally drunk Bellamy around her shoulders. He sings to her ear, the lyrics indecent enough to make her blush, and laughs that deep laugh of his that brings a shiver down her spine. Even with alcohol numbing her mind – or perhaps because of it, who knows – she can't ignore the way he affects her, with his stupidly low, stupidly attractive voice, and how warm he is against her, and how well she fits in the crook of his arm.

Which is ridiculous, because it's Bellamy.

And she definitely isn't attracted to her roommate.

She tells him so as she drags his ass up the stairs, stumbling every so often and almost falling when she misses the last step. He just laughs, and singsongs, "Liar, liar, pants on fire. You said you like brunettes."

She scoffs. This is ridiculous. "Doesn't mean I'm attracted to every person with brown hair I see, dickhead."

"Pity…"

It takes her two longs minutes to put the key in the door and open it. Even longer to shove Bellamy in his room for him to sleep. He falls face-first on his bed, still clothed, still wearing his shoes, and starts snoring in a matter of seconds. She rolls her eyes and let him be, because she isn't his mother and definitely isn't his girlfriend, and so she has better things to do than take off his shoes for him and tug him it.

Clarke sighs merrily as, finally wearing her PJs, she snuggles under the warmth of her comforter. Her head is pounding but she can't find the strength to stand up again and grab a glass of water. She'll regret it comes morning, but worrying about her hangover isn't on her list of priorities right now.

She falls asleep to thoughts of freckles and long tanned legs and Spanish curses.