His eyes dart from her face, to her chest, to the bulge in his pants.

It's all just misunderstanding, of sorts. Clearly, he's malfunctioning, because of lack of sleep, food, and sexual satisfaction. This is okay.

It's okay, because there's no way he said what he's thinks he said.

It's not in the realm of possibility.

He refuses to believe he is that much of an idiot.

I love you.

No. Nope.

Bellamy Blake does not get crushes, and he certainly does not fall in love with spoiled, bitchy, princess know-it-alls.

And if he hypothetically did, he definitely wouldn't admit it, or blurt it out in the middle of a hook up. He's cooler than that.

And it would not be Clarke, because even if she was his type in a non-hump-and-dump scenario, it would never work, because he'd just fuck it up and probably die of some infection, after she decides to stop treating his wounds in an act of revenge and leaves him to choke on his on vomit.

He's imaginative.

I love you. Seriously?

He loves Octavia and can probably count the number of times he's actually said those words on one hand.

He doesn't talk about his feelings. Feelings make him itchy. He thinks he may be allergic.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he hears his name, but it doesn't sound like it did before, maybe because he's no longer between her legs.

He's not entirely sure how much time has passed, but he's still on his knees, so there's that.

Bellamy opens and closes his mouth a few times, but he forgot how to use his voice.

It's not a bad thing. He should definitely not talk. At least not to her. Ever again. He's terrified of what other made-up confessions might sneak past his lips without his consent.

If someone told him yesterday he'd be expressing such feelings (which he's not confirming actually exist) to a very naked Clarke Griffin, he probably would have laughed and shot them in the leg.

"You don't love me," she says, tugging her clothes on.

Everything is happening too fast. He feels like his brain is chasing his thoughts only to have them slip from his grasp before he can make sense of it. He thinks he's broken.

"You don't love me," she says again, like he couldn't hear her the first time.

She moves to button her shorts and sighs in that annoying way again.

"I don't . . . " he says, finally, but doesn't even know how to finish, because what the fuck is the follow-up supposed to be in the situation? It sounds like he's asking her something.

He licks his lips, and her taste there awakens him enough to have the decency to stop staring at her like an idiot, because he's such a fucking idiot.

He reaches for his shirt. There's a wet smear on it that sticks to his stomach when he tugs it on. He's cock twitches involuntarily and he cringes.

"Glad we agree," she says, shaking her hair out before twisting it back away from her face. Her legs are shaking.

And while Bellamy's pretty sure he does agree with her, the more aware he becomes of the situation, the more his stomach twists and his throat tightens. He feels annoyed and horny . . . and confused, but mostly annoyed.

"What makes you so sure?" he says without thinking, which is apparently his new thing.

"You just said so," she deadpans, narrowing her eyes in his general direction, without actually looking at him.

It's at least a half hour walk back to camp and he debates biting his tongue off to render him speechless, before he says something else stupid and life-ruining.

"I also said that I love you."

"Then you said you didn't."

"You said I didn't."

"So which is it, Blake?"

" I don't – I mean maybe."

She scoffs. "Thanks for clearing that up."

He hears something crunch beneath his boots and leans down to pick up the sketch Clarke threw on the ground before throwing herself on him.

She doesn't turn around to see if he's following her. She doesn't look at him at all the entire walk home.


It's been three days after the incident when Raven parades into his tent unannounced, looking like she's ready to storm a village, drain it of its resources, and take no survivors.

"What the hell did you say to Clarke?"

"Hi Raven. Good morning, Raven. Get the fuck out of my tent, Raven."

He doesn't hear anything else, so in a moment of weakness he peeks an eye open, only to find her glaring at him inches away from his face. She looks like she's seconds away from puffing smoke out of her nose and breathing fire at him, like a dragon. He squints at her. She frightens him, honestly. But he's not going to tell her that.

"Still here, I see."

"Get your ass out of bed and fix Clarke."

Bellamy snorts. "You're the mechanic."

She kicks him, inches away from his dick.

"What the – "

She steals his furs before he can process what's happening and stomps out of tent cursing him to the Underworld and barks he can have his blanky back when Clarke finds a way to surgically remove his head from his ass.

It's a less than pleasant way to wake up, to say the least.


"So," Bellamy says, eyeing Miller sideways.

He's quiet, which is not unusual by itself, but it's the kind of quiet that's careful and uncomfortable, because he's not sure how to say something. Which is just, great.

"Clarke."

"Not you too." Bellamy groans, rubbing a hand over his face.

"So, we're not going to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about," Bellamy snipes.

"Sure. Okay," Miller nods in a way that feels like he might as well be saying, bullshit.

"If there was something, it's something that's not my fault."

"Hm."

"Or my problem."

"Right."

"Quit looking at me like that."

"Does it have anything to do with what you said a few days ago?" Miller asks, wincing, like he's in pain, or knows he will be when Bellamy punches him in the throat.

"What?"

"I mean – " He huffs. "Fuck. This is awkward. Is Clarke who you we're asking about before? Ya know?" He jerks his hand in front of his face to get his point across, a sight Bellamy could've lived without seeing, ever.

"Shut up, Miller."

"Oh my god." A sort of grin threatens to split his face open. Anyone who doesn't know Miller personally, wouldn't have noticed, because Miller's facial expressions range from serious, to slightly less serious.

"Don't," he warns.

"Holy shit. I owe Monty and Jas a drink."

Bellamy stops walking. "What?"

Miller's expression goes carefully blank and he shrugs. "Uh – nothing. I got go."

Bellamy glares at the back of his stupid beanie wearing head, feeling betrayed by literally everyone.

"Assholes."


Bellamy missed the turning point in Clarke and Octavia's relationship where they went from being friendly to actually being friends. It feels dangerous, like climbing a mountain with no rope – while drunk, and barefoot . . . he's not sure how to navigate the situation.

They're both ignoring him now and he's trying his best to be chill about it, but she's his sister. She should be on his side, even if he's not entirely sure what side that is, because he's completely clueless and would really appreciate it if someone would fill him in on why Clarke is so pissed in the first place – if only so he can plan his defense accordingly.

It makes no sense. He made her come, for the first time, presumably ever.

A thank you would be nice.

Or at least some clarification on what the fuck her problem is.

It's a shit situation from every angle, because loving Clarke and being aware of loving Clarke are two completely different things, and he really shouldn't be faulted for either. It's not exactly something he can control.

Feelings are dicks like that.

He's had a few days to think it over and he's sure he's handling the revelation rather maturely.

He figures he's been in love with her since the bunker thing and just didn't know how to place it, because he never felt it before. Ignoring it was easier when he didn't know what it was.

His mouth works faster than his brain, obviously.

Now it's all he can think about and it's swallowing him whole.

Aren't girls supposed to like it when guys talk about their feelings? Shouldn't she have been flattered, if nothing else?

He's coming to the conclusion her attraction to him is only on a physical level and she just hates the rest of him, the Bellamy part.

It's so unfair. He's twenty-three years old and he feels like he's experiencing some terminal late-stage of puberty nobody talks about, because being in love is the fucking worst.

He watches Clarke and Octavia taking their dinners to Raven's tent, because it's not enough to hate him separately, they got to do it in a pack now.

He wants to apologize, but he's not even sure what he feels bad about, so fuck her.

It's killing him not knowing what the hell Clarke is saying to make him look like the bad guy. He doesn't think she told them what he said, because even when Octavia is pissed at him, she'd never turn down an opportunity to make fun of him until he cried, or wrestled her, or both.

Fucking women.

Lincoln invites himself to sit next to Bellamy, so clearly the universe is laughing at him, because the guy he beat the shit out of is taking pity on him, or coming over to return the favor.

"Hey," Bellamy says, shifting on the log to put more space in between them.

Lincoln nods, looking around the camp, watching, studying them, kind of like when they first landed, but openly now instead of hiding in the trees.

"O is with Raven."

"I know," he says. Of course he fucking knows. "And Clarke," he adds, turning to face him.

"Are you here to kill me?"

Lincoln laughs, which is odd and not very reassuring. "No, Bellamy. I just thought maybe you'd like to talk."

Bellamy eyes him warily. "What has she told them?"

"Nothing."

He raises an eyebrow at that. "Nothing?" Okay, obviously she's told them something because they've teamed up and formed an alliance against him.

"She's – she's been crying." He pauses and then adds, "a lot."

Bellamy blinks and feels something horrible building in his chest. "Why?"

Lincoln shrugs. "She won't say. She never even said it was about you, but she didn't have too."

He's used to being the one responsible for putting in Clarke in an eternal bad mood, but trying to grasp that fact that she's been acting like a bitch, because she's sad, is so much worse than he could have predicted. His heart hurts.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"It felt like something you should know."

"Based on what?"

"If it was Octavia, I'd want to know."


Bellamy finds himself in Clarke's tent later that night, alternating between sitting on her bed, or her chair, and ultimately walking in circles around her tent, because being still is just too much.

He knows she'll be back eventually and he's trying to figure out the best way to keep her here when she sees him.

He doesn't have any bright ideas and his patience is running thin, so when she walks in and freezes in front of him, eyes wide and red, he just says it.

"I love you."

She blinks once, twice, looks positively heartbroken for a fraction of a second, before she masks it into a scowl. But he saw it and he's done not knowing what he did to put it there.

"Don't," she says, stepping back from him. He catches her in his fists before she runs away and lifts her on top of the makeshift table, crowding her there.

"Princess, hey - "

She pushes at his chest and even tries to slap him, but he grabs her wrist and pulls her into his arms. She exhausts herself, until he's no longer restraining her, and instead he's just hugging her while she cries into his chest. She's trembling, and he's rubbing slow circles on her back, burying his face in hair.

"Please, talk to me."

She sobs harder and it's fucking terrifying, because he loves her and he has no idea why her response is to cry. He's genuinely scared she actually hates him, but he has to know.

"Just - tell me what I'm doing wrong, Clarke." He pulls himself back a bit, trying to look at her face, but she's clinging to his shirt, hiding from him. "I don't understand."

Her breathing slows and he feels her melt into his embrace. He lifts her and carries her to the bed, keeping her tugged to his torso. He waits.

"You can't."

His breath catches and he holds her tighter. "I do."

"I don't believe you." That's rude.

He huffs, combing his fingers through her hair. "We're partners. I trust you and you trust me, remember? Or at least you did."

She's silent for a minute, or an hour, he's too wrapped up in her to debate the illusion of time. She nudges her nose closer and sighs. "I do."

"Then why are you fighting me on this?" She cuddles deeper, like she's trying to disappear into his body. "Help me get it."

"Finn said he loved me." Oh.

Oh.

He pushes back on her shoulders to see her face. Hearing her just isn't enough and he needs to know she's paying attention. "I'm not Finn, Clarke."

"You slept with Raven," she says staring at his chest.

He squints at her. "That's true." He tilts her chin up and their eyes lock. "It didn't mean anything else."

"And it will with me?" she scoffs, like it's obvious.

She tries squirming out of his arms and he holds her there. Like hell she's leaving. "Clarke," feeling the weight of her name and the emotion it carries on his tongue. She frowns at him. "Princess, if I'm with you I'm with you. I can't change who I fucked before I knew I loved you."

"Stop saying that."

"It's the truth. Stop pretending it isn't."

"Finn loved Raven and he fucked me."

"Finn likes to hear himself speak," he growls, rolling his eyes. He fucking hates spacewalker. "They're just words to him, Clarke."

She shoves his chest, "Just words."

"Not to me," he says, running his hands down her back and resting them on her hips. "I can show you."

Her mouth falls open and she just stares. He reaches a hand up to cup her cheek, dropping his thumb to trace her jaw. She blinks and whispers, "You love me?"

"Do you need me to write it down? Maybe make a banner and display it in the middle of camp?"

She chokes on a laugh and punches his chest. He holds her hand there and smirks, in a way that he hopes she finds charming.

"You love me." She smiles and his breath hitches looking into her glassy eyes. They look bluer somehow and he curses, because of course his princess would still be fucking gorgeous when she cries.

"I think you said that backwards, Clarke." He's really fucking hoping.

She grips his shoulders then and pushes him on his back. He watches as she straddles him and bites her lip. Fuck.

"I think I owe you something first," she smiles trailing her hands down chest and pausing at his groin.

"Is this going to be a thing now? Oral first, feelings later."

"You started it."

He grins reaching up to tug her hair, "Well, go on then. Finish it."