Disclaimer: Do not own Marvel, The 100 or DC

Warnings for torture, someone mentioned being skinned alive, tortured, their dick cut off, their heart cut out and decapitated, and explicit mentions of gory disembowelment and dismemberment.

Hate

If there was at least one word in the English language, or really, in any language that Clarke adored more than any, it was the word, "hate."

Frankly, it was Clarke Griffin's favorite word on the planet. In the multiverse, even.

Or at least, it had been.

That was, before them.

Before they had come into her life.

Before she had succumbed to her feelings for them.

Hate? It was the emotion that had given her purpose. Had given her happiness, if only a tainted sort of happiness.

She was, after all, a twisted creature. So, then, it was appropriate that she practically put the emotion that was hate up on a pedestal.

For her, hatred has nowhere else to belong in the world, save for in the highest regard for anyone who even utilized a bit of their brain and dedicated it to logic.

Because, well, what else was left after everyone had betrayed you?

Hatred.

Hatred was all that was left.

When everyone betrayed you, told you that you were a monster and evil, what was left?

Except hate?

And Clarke? Clarke was well versed in the way of hate. She had been for a very long time.

But then?

They had come along into her life.

When she was trapped in that room, when the Avengers had lured her to Stark Tower, and had used that forcefield to keep her from leaving, she had wanted to hate the Avengers and their allies.

Had wanted to hate them as much as she hated her adoptive mother, Abby Griffin, and as much as she hated the rest of the Ark people and the Mountain Men and the Trikru.

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

She could hate the rest of the world and everyone in it. But not them.

She could never hate them, regardless of how much at the time, she wished she could have.

Hatred? That was such a wonderful emotion. So many claimed that it was a dangerous and terrible emotion. That no one should feel it.

But for Clarke? For Clarke, hatred had more or less saved her.

Saved her life, at least.

When Abby Griffin had told her that she was a monster, had abandoned her, when her father had been executed in front of her, when she had been forced to kill all the Mountain Men, when the Grounders had made it clear that they would kill anyone who didn't join a tribe, then later only put Clarke on a pedestal, when she had wiped out an entire people, the Mountain Men, Clarke had realized, when she thought she would break completely, that hate was the safest feeling she'd ever experienced.

It had been her salvation when the rejection she'd received from the world threatened to destroy her completely.

Hate had been her savior.

When Anya, Wells, Finn and Lincoln had come to bring her back from the Ice Nation, Clarke's hate had been her salvation then too.

So much so, that when the sack of shit, Bellamy Blake had tried to kill her to avenge his sister, Octavia, she had happily skinned him, tortured him, castrated him and jammed a knife into the wound where she'd cut him open, then had cut his heart out, fed his worthless body and skin to the dogs, and put his decapitated head on a spike.

And it was why she had relished showing Bellamy's cut out heart to Wells, Anya, Lincoln and Finn.

Because they would need to know how much she hated. And that they were wasting her time by coming to the Ice Nation.

She hated so much that it felt good to do so.

She hated so much that it felt good to torture Bellamy to death and toss his heart over to the floor of Wells, Anya, Lincoln and Finn's cell and see their horrified expressions, as a result.

She hated so much that every moment of violence she had spent in the Ice Nation, she had loved.

And her hate remained her salvation.

It had been so for years and years.

And then?

Them.

Then Clarke had met them.

Clarke again, had wanted to hate them.

But she couldn't.

She never would be able to.

Her hate of the world had fueled her for years. And it still fueled her, during her time being held captive in Stark Tower.

But their presence? The presence of the Avengers and the Justice League, who did nothing protect her and try to help her?

That hate for the world didn't last long.

When she had begun to feel what she felt for them, she, at first, had mistaken it for hate. Because hate had just come so naturally to her.

But she knew better now.

How could she hate the world as much as she did, when people like Natasha, Pepper, Wanda, Diana, Steve, Bruce and the others all kept trying to get her to see the beauty in the world?

She had tried to get herself to hate them for that, as well. For them trying to alter the way she saw the world.

And she then she tried to get herself to hate them for succeeding.

But she couldn't.

All those times in the past, when she'd torn peoples' bodies open, had torn peoples' heads off, and torn peoples' hearts out or torn peoples' arms and legs off? They were inconsequential, even with the pleasant memory of all the blood gushing out of them as she would stand back, grin and watch as her victims bled out.

All that hate that had wrapped around her heart and had created a hard shell stronger than any vibranium, was now open completely.

Thanks to them.

If only that shell could be repaired.

But it couldn't be. Not now.

That shell around her heart had cracked open, practically the moment she had laid eyes on Natasha, when Clarke had gone to rescue Natasha from Ultron and had laid eyes upon the rest of the Avengers during the fight between them and Ultron.

And it had just kept opening up, during her time being held in that room in Stark Tower.

Again, she wished at least a shred of her could hate her mates for that. But she could not.

What hate was there left to feel?

The only hate she felt was for those that threatened her loved ones. Nothing more.

Still, Clarke wouldn't deny occasionally, she'd look out the window of Stark Tower, crouched down in the rooms where the Avengers were talking and she stared down at the masses of people down there, wondering if she could will herself to hate them so much again, that she'd want to tear their stomachs open, rip their insides out and begin to chew on them again.

Her thoughts, however, were interrupted, when she heard footsteps walking over to her.

Cautiously, Clarke turned to who was approaching her.

It was Natasha, Pepper and Tony.

"What's up, honey?" Pepper asked, smiling, "You look focused on something."

"Yeah," Clarke said, shrugging, "Wondering why it doesn't feel the same as it did before, when I think about killing people."

Pepper's smile didn't leave her face, but her eyebrows furrowed together and Clarke was guessing that she was contemplating on if she should be concerned about Clarke.

"Do you want to kill right now?" Natasha asked cautiously, even if there was no fear in her voice or in her eyes as she reached out for Clarke, her right hand placing itself on Clarke's left cheek gently.

Clarke sighed, leaning into Natasha's hand, and her heart filled with warmth and love. "No," she said quietly, "Not anymore."

No. She didn't hate right now.

She just felt love.

And Clarke's chest felt even warmer, when she saw Natasha, Pepper and Tony smile softly in response.

It was because of them and the rest of her mates that she could only feel hate in certain circumstances. And while some fucked up part of her, some part of her that still belonged to the Azgeda, wished to hate them for it, she couldn't and you know?

She realized that wasn't so bad.

Clarke smiled back at the loving expressions on Natasha, Pepper and Tony's faces, and she realized, no, it wasn't so bad at all.