#I will settle for being in love with chapel roan instead of wanting to be her lol

[galactic-magick]

the Chappell Roan effect is getting too real because suddenly I have an insatiable urge to wear sparkly make up and dye my hair red again even thought I had to spend so much time and money getting my hair color corrected last time 😂

[w4dows]

i told you so

wanda maximoff x fem! reader

cw: internalized homophobia, pining, eventual (light) smut - i am not responsible for the content you consume

word count: 1.7k

summary: from the moment you'd met wanda, you'd been enamoured, but being in love with your best friend when she's in a long-term relationship with her boyfriend, Vision, really wasn't good for your heart.

a/n: yes this was inspired by Chapell Roan "Good Luck, Babe!"

you had kissed wanda once, and you don’t think you’d ever forget it.

the club she had persuaded you to go to with her was a jumble of sweaty drunk people in a dingy, sweaty bar, and you lost wanda - you think she said she was going to get a drink, but to be honest, you were just staring at her lips. her pillowed lips were pinked by a lip gloss, a lip gloss that you very proudly had bought for her. she taps on your shoulder, and you look at her, your breath hitching in your throat; god, she was beautiful - and also very drunk.

somehow you let yourself be dragged into joining the clutter of people who were dancing, and you find your hands on wanda’s hips as she dances, one of the few & rare carefree moments she has. your lips quirk up into a smile, with affection shining so brightly in your eyes as you watched the red haired girl, affection that was purely for wanda. 

she looks at you, her piercing green eyes much fonder than usual, cleared of the usual stress and worry that hid away in them, and she cupped your face in her hands. her hands were sweaty, so was your face - but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when she was holding your face as if it was fragile goods. 

“wands?” you murmur softly, your faces so close that she can hear you over the loud bass of the club, over the horrible DJ’s remixes. 

“you look pretty tonight - can i kiss you?” she whispers, her eyes trained on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat, unable to do anything but nod.

god, when her lips met yours you thought the world might explode. the kiss was tender, soft even, and as you both pulled away breathlessly, she looked at you. you thought this might be the start for something real between you and wanda, but instead -

“want me to get you a refill?”

'no i want you to kiss me again and never stop,' you thought.

you nodded dumbly instead.

--

you had first met the girl when she was a shell of the woman she is now, she had just been recruited as an avenger. you were the one in her earpiece, guiding her through her missions as a very nervous wanda acclimatized to being an avenger and helping people.

you were there for her when she had failed her first mission, when she opened up about sokovia and how much she missed her twin brother, and she was there for you when you spoke of the stress of your job, and the worry you had for every avenger. the 2 of you quickly found yourselves becoming close with each other, and there was barely a moment that you weren’t

until vision came along. after wanda kissed you, the both of you hadn’t spoken about it again, opting to go on with the party as if everything was normal. a week later, she finally accepted visions’ advances.

--

wanda was fickle - she craved love. she had been taught between good and bad from a young age, and loving a girl - no, loving you, was simply not good. so she settled, she settled for Vision. he was a sweet boy, who clearly had it bad for her. she tried to love him, she really did, but every time he'd touch her, every time he'd kiss her, she couldn't help but wonder; would you be as soft as you looked when you'd kiss her? would you be gentle with her, or would you let the fire of desire consume you?

loving wanda was like a fire, not just because of her uncanny resemblance to one in personality & physical features; her burning embers of auburn hair, her fiery resilience. loving her was something that kept you comfortable, made your heart warm, but it could quickly turn into something more dangerous, something more damaging if not taken care of properly - which is how your 'friendship' ended.

--

your friendship with wanda, full of yearning and pining, had come to an unfortunate halt when you had just enough of wanda & visions relationship, or should you say, “relationship.” 

she had invited you out to brunch, which you eagerly accepted, wanda doesn’t get many days off. you guys were at your favorite spot, sipping on cocktails as you chatted, until vision was brought up. 

“i really don’t understand why it bothers you so much,” she remarks, after you’d rolled at some story about vision doing the bare minimum and wanda gushing over him. 

“you deserve someone who would treat you good wands,” you remark bitterly, sick of biting your tongue when it came to discussing her relationship

“he treats me just fine-”

“I could treat you better wands,” you interrupt, you were done hiding how you felt, especially when vision wasn’t treating wanda as good as you could.

“what do you mean?” she asks, her eyebrows furrowing together.

you take a deep breath before speaking, “i mean that i love you wanda- i have for a long time.”

her face falls.

so does yours.

“you can’t love me-”

“thanks-a-fucking-lot wanda! tell me how i’m supposed to stop loving someone you, tell me,” you were practically begging; god, you were so tired of pining. 

“why do you love me when you know i can't- shouldn't love you back?” she practically whispers, rolling her bottom lip through her teeth

“wanda-”

“i cant-” 

before she can even finish talking, you grab your wallet, placing some bills on the table to cover brunch

“wands, i can’t do this anymore - i need time,” you mutter, trying to blink back tears as you walk out of the quaint brunch spot, desperately trying not to look back at her.

--

wanda was a mess without you. what was the point of being an avenger, of saving people, if she didn’t have you in her earpiece, guiding her through it, assuring her that everytime was going to be okay - you always made everything okay. 

she missed you. 

but she also didn’t have the right to miss you.

so she threw herself into missions, into making the world a better place (and avoiding vision)

2 weeks later she broke up with him.

to his credit, he took it well - at least better than most would.

--

she stood, small and timid on your doorstep as knocks; it was much too late at night for you to be anywhere else.

her head was pounding, a flurry of unkempt thoughts as she heard your footsteps approach the door. yet, as soon as you opened it and she saw your face, they quieted; it was just, you.

god, she missed you.

your eyebrows furrowed, meeting perfectly in the middle, before you decided to speak. "wands, what are you doing here?" you questioned, your tone not harsh, but it was lacking the usual warmth you stowed away for wanda.

"i left vision"

"oh."

"i left vision because i love you"

"oh."

"..." she stood there, looking so shy, eagerly waiting for your response, and all you could think to say was 'oh.' - you loved wanda, of course you did, but you weren't exactly sure how to tell her you loved her too. you were so caught up in your head that you didn't catch the way wanda's face fell - did she make a mistake telling you?

she took a deep breath, braving herself to speak before continuing, "if you dont feel the same way its fin-"

"i love you too wanda. i love you so much that i think the world might explode," you blurt out; now it was wanda's turn to be shocked. both of you clearly weren't expecting that response, and all you could do was stare at the other, millions of unspoken words and thoughts between you.

“wands, come in,” you murmur, and god had she missed this.

--

you quickly find your lips pressed against wanda’s, teeth clicking against each other as your hands tangle in her flaming hair, deepening the kiss. you were desperate to feel her, to touch her, as was she.

she tasted the same she did from that night at the bar, but this was much more raw, much more primal. neither of you objected as your hands made their way onto her ass, holding it as she deepened the kiss.

you broke the kiss, both of you breathless and panting, your chests rising and falling in sync as the both of you tried to catch your breath.

"touch me, please," she whispers, her lips plump and swollen from your kisses, and god, all she wanted was your touch.

"are you sure?" you murmur, and all she had to do was nod before you helped her tug off her sweatshirt and sweatpants. she was standing before you, vulnerable & so beautiful as she looked at you, her pupils blown with lust. her pearly skin was on display, and you could see every freckle, every birthmark, every scar. 

"god wands, you're beautiful."

her face tinges with red, and you can't help the soft chuckle that escapes your throat, pressing another soft kiss to her lips.

you waste no time in stripping down, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses onto wanda’s neck, and you felt like you were on fire. you take your time coaxing sweet noises out of the redhead, enjoying every moan and whimper you elicited, savoring them. kissing down her neck and moving onto her collarbones paying special attention to that one spot that coaxed the sweetest little moans out of her. 

she whined impatiently as you toyed with her breasts, tugging and toying with her sensitive nipples. god, she was so beautiful; head thrown back, soft moans falling out of her mouth.

to what feels like years to wanda, you finally make yourself in between her legs, god she was wet. you look up at her, “is this okay, beautiful?” you mummur, and she nods. 

“words, baby”

“yes, god yes,” she rasps, and you press a kiss to her inner thigh before diving in

–

by the end of the night, you’d kissed wanda maximoff a total of 27 times. 

[cassandralexxx]

If u know me irl don’t read this 🤩

like frfr specifically you know who you are don’t read this 🙏🙏🙏

anyways just stream of of consciousness internalized homophobia so if you don’t want to read my internal negative ramblings regarding my sexuality scroll 💕 I can’t stop thinking about Chapelle Roan’s song “good luck babe”. Like I keep listening to it and even when doing other things the lyrics remain on my mind. I don’t mean that in a “it’s stuck in my head” kind of way but instead like genuinely thinking about it. It’s a certain point the song feels painful to listen to. idk even though I am mostly out I still feel like I relate more to the subject of the song than roan. I connect more with being the person who will try to deny themself and live a life unfulfilled.

I thibk it’s bc within my personal life growing up (post realizing) I used to be desperate to be into guys but I never could make myself feel that. I couldn’t force my attraction to men and I couldn’t stop my attraction to women. It’s like I first realized I was gay after my first crush on a girl; up till that point I was still hopeful id develop feelings for men. freshman year at university during the first homecoming week despite coming out as gay to some of my peers I still tried to flirt with a guy. Idk I was so hopeful that through alcohol and flirtation I could “stop the feeling” but I couldn’t.

even now that I act more secure in my sexuality I’m not out to my dad nor his family or my moms family or my family friends. I would never marry a guy or whatever if it was for the purpose of hiding my sexuality bc that feels cruel to them but sometimes I wish to do something bc maybe that would let me be the idealized normal I had growing up.

idk it’s such a song where it feels like it’s being sung to me idk. Like even tho I say what I do I still think what if I just decide to find a “nice guy” and settle down. this song reminds me a lot of the conversation I had with someone 1.5 years ago where she called me crying after her friends wedding bc she was so sad that I could never be married like that bc I’m gay. She is bi so she can find a guy but I can’t have that and I deserve happiness too. (She was not sober hence the call) or a close friend of mine from high school that multiple times when we got drunk she would tell me about how she’s gay and would sometimes kiss one of our friends.

she’s dating a guy now.

it’s weird

even in this time that I think of as “so progressive” I know a lot of people who choose to repress themselves. Like yeah the song is about lesbians not bi ppl bc like bi ppl are still bi even in het relationships but like im talking about my close friends that yes they are lgbt but they will never claim that identity bc they feel the wrongness of it. Idk growing up and even sometimes now I remember thinking “if I was bi I’d be straight” bc like if I could choose I wouldn’t choose this.

sometimes I can’t handle the implication of what it means that I am a lesbian. And I think what if I just conform but like it reminds me of roans song. Good luck babe. It won’t work.

I can tell myself how great a guy is and how maybe we’d look good together but I can’t force my attraction. All I can feel is disgust. Which in turn disappoints me bc it’s like why do I feel this way.

I was talking to a friend the other day and I was trying to be like yes I understand that guy is hot but I’m not into him. And I was starting to be like I don’t know why that is and I realized oh yea that’s part of what makes me gay.

in media I feel like I relate more to the closeted character. I loved the happiest season, and I loved Harper. I felt for her, I felt that anxiety surrounding coming out about being herself. That didn’t change her love for Abby but it’s about herself. It devastated me and I saw myself in it.

I sometimes wish I lived in a world unlike our own.

[sometimesrosy]

The Carriage House, ch 7: The Plum Wine’s Divine

The Carriage House

rosymamacita

Chapter 7 read on A03

Bellamy and Clarke reach an equilibrium over the summer. It's driving Bellamy nuts.

You guys are gonna hate me. ;)

Something changed after that night, and Bellamy wasn’t sure what. Something about the carriage house settled then. At first it was a relief, that this tension between them seemed to have ebbed, but then he began to worry. Was this just the way it would always be? Bellamy spending all his time on his own tasks, and Clarke spending her time on hers. Separate but amicable?

He should be happy. This was what he wanted. A good relationship with Clarke Griffin that wasn’t in danger of imploding because of his unrequited feelings. It helped that he poured all those feelings into the book. Admitting to himself that it was about her made a difference. Whenever he was frustrated or particularly longing for her, he’d just write it into the story. He stuffed in way too many chapters about how they touched each other, instead of focusing on their survival in the apocalypse, but he didn’t really care. He just needed to get it out. It was a coping strategy and he was aware of it.

He still had half the summer to go before getting back to school and he tried to fill his time up with non Clarke activities, and he had the feeling it would be okay. It was in equilibrium. He got his coffee in the morning and took a deep breath when he saw Clarke getting set for her day, before he headed back to his room to work on the next chapter. He thought he might be able to finish his first draft before he had to go back to school. The carriage house was a blessing. He didn’t need to pick up a summer job bartending or doing curriculum planning or anything, because his rent was so damn reasonable. He could focus and actually write for once. And if he had to tamp down a surge of disappointment that the attraction he felt for Clarke hadn’t been pushed to the surface and addressed and dealt with once and for all, whether it meant he could love her for real or had to accept it never being more than fake, well… he put that frustration into his book, too.

“Have fun, Clarke,” he told her, when she said she was heading to the museum with her sketchbook for the day. She eyed him as he slipped off up the stairs with his coffee and his hair as mussed as his brain.

He was just settling down to chapter 15 when there was a scratching at the door.

“Bellamy?”

“What is it Clarke?”

She opened the door and poked just her head in. Her hair was twisted up in a knot on the top of her head and a little bit of the pink she’d dyed the ends with for the summer showed. She was freaking adorable. “Did you want to come with me to the museum?”

He blinked at her. He thought for a minute about wandering through the museum with her, letting her show him her favorite art works, him dragging her down to the roman weapons section. “The Museum” always meant The Metropolitan. He knew her that well. “I love the museum,” he said, afraid suddenly that it sounded too much like ‘I love you,’ so he hurried on, “but I’m really getting into this part in my book and I don’t want to lose my inspiration. I only have until school starts.”

“Why do you only have until school starts? You can keep writing after we go back to school.”

“Clarke.” It felt like a scold. “Teaching is my job. This is a hobby. I’m enjoying it, but I’m under no illusions that it’s anything but a hobby to pass the time. It’s fun, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” she said and pushed in the door to lean up against the doorjamb. She wore a white dress sprigged with summer flowers. It flowed down her body and revealed acres of creamy cleavage. He was speechless. Good thing she didn’t require him to speak. She took a deep breath and he refused to let himself watch her breasts rise. “I’ll bring something back for you.”

He nodded. Still without words. She smiled with a twinkling eye and left, closing the door behind her.

He took a moment to find out how to breathe again, and then shook his head and got back to writing. He’d find a way to work that into this chapter if it killed him.

*** He jumped when a knock came at his door some time later. He shook himself out of the daze he’d fallen into writing. “What’s up?”

Clarke opened the door and stuck her head in. “Hey, I picked up some steaks for dinner.”

He blinked at her. “Dinner already? Didn’t you just leave?”

She grinned and stepped in, one hand behind her back, still wearing the pretty dress. “Silly, that was hours ago. I just was in the mood for steak. So I got some. I’m going to put them on, but I wanted to give you a heads up. You think you can take a break in a half hour or so?”

He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. I haven’t actually taken a break yet and I probably should.”

She smiled wider. “So it’s been a good day of writing. Perfect. I got this for you. It can be a celebration.” She held out her hand that had been behind her back. “It’s a mug.” She took a few steps across the room towards Bellamy as he just stood and watched. “Look.” She held it up for him.

Michelangelo’s painting The Creation of Man was stretched around it.

“It’s from the Sistine Chapel.”

“I know where it’s from,” he said and took it from her, looking at it. “Thanks, but why did you get me this.”

She shrugged and looked away almost bashfully. Bellamy stared. She was never bashful. “I don’t know. Because you’re the creator. Creating something. Like a god.”

His mouth dropped open.

She rolled her eyes and punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t be a jerk about it.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and flounced out. “Dinner in thirty minutes. I don’t want to mess up your writing session so plan accordingly.”

Then she was gone and he was rubbing his shoulder where she punched him. Not because it hurt. Just because he still felt her there and he wasn’t sure what had just happened.

***

They went back to normal. Bellamy used ‘normal’ tentatively, because he didn’t understand what normal was. She wasn’t just his colleague. She wasn’t just his friend. She wasn’t just his roommate. She was something more than that but what she was to him, or more importantly, what he was to her was completely a mystery to him.

They still pretended to be married around Vera. And pretended to be dating around Clarke’s mother or Roan their new assistant principal or Marcus the owner of the house or even Jackson, who now believed that their relationship was of the “complicated” variety. Which he supposed was true. And not an act at all. But the little touches and kisses and how close they sat, whenever one of those people was around WAS an act. And for some reason, one of those people ALWAYS seemed to be around. He wasn’t quite sure how it happened. Bellamy and Clarke’s friends and family kind of just got folded into Vera’s friends and family and soon, they weren’t just hanging out with Miller and Monty and Jasper and Raven, their friends, but also with Jackson and Harper, an intern from Marcus’ business, Maya, a woman from Vera’s church who helped her with gardening, Luna, the psychic from across the street, and Murphy, Vera’s regular pizza delivery guy, who now lived in the tiny basement apartment of her brownstone with his girlfriend Emori, who… to be honest, Bellamy had no clue what Emori did.

The act became a natural thing. An easy thing. A constant thing. A habit. Something he barely even thought about. And it never went over the bounds again, but it flirted with the boundaries every day and drove him mad. They behaved with a level of intimacy that was always right on the edge of romance. No displays. Just casual affection. Everyone in their new lives just accepted it as who they were to each other. Weird, independent, maybe staring a little bit too long.

Even their friends who knew the truth stopped acting as if it was the funniest joke ever. It just was. Bellamy and Clarke just were. They were together and it was right and the way it was supposed to be.

And he ached for her, while she was right there.

*** “Bellamy!” came Clarke’s voice through the door. Sing songy and insistent. “Bellamy you promised…”

He sighed and put his book down. He wasn’t writing. Truth be told, he’d finished the book. No one knew though. He was hiding in his room pretending to write as an excuse to keep hiding, but there was an itch under his skin. It made it impossible to sit still and he wasn’t sure what it was. School planning was starting in just a couple days, and he felt like things had settled, but were unsettled. It was this middle ground. He didn’t know what to make of it.

“What did I promise exactly?”

Clarke opened the door even though she hadn’t been invited, not really. They had a tendency not to pay attention to polite niceties like knocking. One of those things. She slipped in the door wearing a low cut v-neck t-shirt and a short shorts. Summer really did a number on her wardrobe. It’s like she wasn’t trying to cover any skin at all. “You promised to show me the constellations.”

His sigh was bigger this time.”Clarke. We’re in the middle of New York City. There’s too much light pollution. Some day I’ll take you out to Montauk and we can sit on the beach and I’ll show you out there.”

She smiled so happily he was stunned. “Yes please! I will hold you to that one, too, but you can’t break this promise. You said you would on the next clear night. You said you might be able to see some of them and show me.”

“I don’t remember, I must have been drunk,” he grumbled, although he kind of did. There was definitely some of Monty’s home brewed beer involved. And Raven’s sciencey excitement over some of Hubble’s latest photos that had gotten everyone fired up. Especially after he told them that in his book he was writing, the heroes came from a dying space station, meant to save them after the world was made uninhabitable. He’d had a bit too much to drink and had let out his story without thinking. They jumped on that and pressed him for more details, so he distracted them with stories of constellations. They were drunk enough that it worked.

“Bellamy…” she sang again, with a half smile. She wasn’t letting it go.

“Fine.” He laboriously got up from his desk. Her giant smile making his act of reluctance really hard to maintain, until she grabbed his hand and he just let the grumpy act go entirely. He was a little too happy to follow her out into the garden, his hand in hers.

“I’ve already had Vera turn off all the lights in the garden so we can see,” Clarke said. He couldn’t really see her, but her voice was like whiskey and shivered down his spine.

He sat down in an adirondack chair, and she piled herself in his lap.

“What are you doing?” he asked, stunned.

“I need to be close to you so that I can see the stars you are pointing at. They’re pretty dim. And I can barely see you at all.” She curled her arm around his neck and pressed her face next to his. “What is that one called?” She pointed at the brightest one, he followed her finger. The north star.

“The north star.” He said, distractedly. She was so soft against him.

“So does that mean you can find your way in the wilderness with that?”

“It’s not a compass, which points to true north. Magnetic north.”

“Ah. Yes. I need true north to find my way.” Her words whispered over his skin. “But if I don’t have one, how do I know which is the north star?”

He sighed. “I told you there was too much light pollution.”

“You promised.”

He sighed and resisted the desire to run his hands up and down her thigh, her arm, her back, all that delicious exposed skin, and instead began pointing out to her the stars he could see. Then the stars that should be visible if their skies had been darker and then he let go of the stars they could see at all and just told her stories about gods and monsters and felt as if he were somehow connected to the divine, just because he was touching her and she was smiling softly at him as she listened. He wanted to kiss her.

“Hello kids. I didn’t know you’d be out here,” Vera said. “What a coincidence. I was just going to leave this at your door.” She held up a bottle filled with a dark brown liquid.

“What is it?” Clarke said brightly, looping her arm around Bellamy’s neck and reaching out for the bottle.

Vera smiled— Bellamy would have called it a smirk, but Vera wasn’t the type to smirk. She was entirely too sweet. “This is my plum wine. A batch has just matured. Here, drink.” She popped the cork out and handed the bottle to Clarke.

Clarke gasped with happiness, wiggling just a little in his lap in a way that was hard to deal with, and then put the bottle to her lips and tipped it up. “Oh my god. That is delicious.”

“I know. It’s the secret ingredient of my sangria. Right there. A little bit of bottled magic.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes just a little. Vera didn’t catch him but Clarke did. She gave him a warning look. “Taste Vera’s plum wine, Bellamy. Do you want me to feed it to you?” There was a teasing look in her eyes.

He glared at her and took the bottle. There was a moment when he first tasted it where it was almost like medicine, but when he held it in his mouth, it deepened and richened. It was dark and sweet. Heavy with fruit. The perfume filled his head. Swallowing, the alcohol heat followed down into his stomach. “It’s strong.” He said, his voice deeper.

“It’s good,” Clarke said, took the bottle and pulled deep on it. She licked her lips and he could almost see the sweetness of the dark purple wine on the tip of her tongue. It was entrancing.

“Your turn,” she said, smiling and holding it out to him.

“I shouldn’t…” the words didn’t hold much strength.

“You should. We’re going back to work in a couple of days. Live a little, Bell.” When she smiled, her tongue poked out from behind her teeth and he couldn’t stop looking.

He nodded and took another drink, long and hard.

“Well,” Vera said, her voice full of happiness. She was always so pleasant. “I’ve done my duty and delivered my secret weapon to you.”

“Weapon?” Bellamy asked.

“Ingredient. Same thing. Enjoy the last few days of your vacation kids. I’m going to turn in for the night.”

And then she’d gone back into the ivy covered brownstone and Bellamy and Clarke sat there, her warm in his lap, trading sips. He found his breath synchronizing with hers. When she laughed, her forehead tipped forward and pressed against his forehead. He couldn’t help sliding his palm up and down her arm. Her skin was like velvet.

When his phone rang, he jumped and nearly dumped her on the ground. He shook his head. To clear it. It wasn’t working. He tapped her knee indicating that he was going to get up. She grumbled and climbed off of his lap.

He checked his phone. “Octavia,” he said, puzzled. This was not their regular call. She didn’t usually call him out of the blue. “I need to take this.”

Clarke bit her lip and nodded, Sitting back down in the chair as he walked to the edge of the patio. “Hey O. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just trying to straighten out the holidays and vacation and all. You and Clarke are coming to Ann Arbor for Thanksgiving, right? And we’re coming to you for Christmas?”

“Uh, she usually spends holidays with her mom.”

“So you’re going to DC with her instead?”

“No. I’ll have thanksgiving with you and she’ll have thanksgiving with her mom.”

Octavia snorted. “Really, Bellamy? You’re not spending the family holidays with your wife— I mean girlfriend? It will be your first together right?”

He glanced over at Clarke. She was looking away but he could tell she was listening. He cleared his throat. “We’re not like that, O.”

She looked at him, and he couldn’t tell in the shadows, but for a minute he thought it was naked pain on her face. But then she took a deep pull on the bottle, and it resolved into a happy smile. His heart beat fast.

“Sure you aren’t.” Octavia said, and he could imagine her rolling her eyes. “You’re in love with her.”

He swallowed. He couldn’t tell her he wasn’t. That would be a lie. He couldn’t tell her he was. That would be admitting too much. He couldn’t give away the ruse, because for all he knew Vera was listening from one of her windows. “It’s just how we are, O. Don’t make it mean more than it means. You know what we are to each other.”

There was a pause on the phone. His eyes found Clarke’s again and she was staring at him. Full of shadows again. He didn’t know what.

“I’m going in,” Clarke said, without warning. And he wondered if he’d hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt her.

“Clarke…” he called, but she was down the path already, the wine bottle abandoned on the table. And Octavia was demanding his attention.

“You’re so stupid Bellamy,” O said. He knew already. “She’s in love with you, too. Did you not notice? I can’t believe you’re not together yet.”

“Listen O, I can’t talk now I have to—“

“The hell you can’t. You’re going to stay on the phone until I beat it into you.”

He should have hung up. His sister was relentless when she was on a mission. But instead, he stayed, because it was better than running after Clarke like he really wanted to do and making a mess of everything with his hopeless love for her and his drunken lack of inhibitions. He really shouldn’t have had that much plum wine, but she kept urging him. And he had a hard time not giving her what she wanted.

He finally got Octavia to accept that he knew he was a fool and let him hang up. He grabbed the nearly empty bottle of wine and followed Clarke down the path into their apartment.

With the lights off, it seemed mysterious. Like a different place. Like the inside of his heart, all the twists and turns, shadows, the sweet smell of how much he loved Clarke. He wanted her back in his arms and he wanted to taste the wine on her lips and drink from the beauty that was her.

He found himself taking the stairs two at a time. He needed to talk to her. He knew something was wrong and Octavia had drilled into him how much he loved her for the last ten minutes. He knew it and he couldn’t bear if he’d said something wrong. The light was still on her room. He opened the door and walked in.

“Clarke, I just—“ he stopped.

She was in her bed, under a thin sheet. Her shoulders were bare and gleamed under the lamp. She was naked under the sheet.

It was soft and draped over her every curve and dip. Her nipples made sharp peaks in the fabric on the soft mounds of her breasts. Her hips were rounded and lush. Her arm led down between her thighs.

Clarke licked her lips and let out a sigh. “Bellamy…” it was barely a word. Her hand began to move.

Bellamy gripped the doorknob to keep from going to her, from pulling the sheet off of her so he could see her, naked and beautiful. From pressing her into the bed with his own body and replacing her hand with his. He wanted to make her come, to feel her moan against his skin. He held on to the door to keep from trailing his tongue over her beaded nipples and sucking. From tasting her. From devouring her mouth with his own.

He wanted to fuck her.

So hard.

He wanted her to be his.

He wanted to love her.

He was so drunk. So was she. He knew it was the plum wine. She wouldn’t do this— It was always when she was drunk. A lump rose in his throat.

“Sorry,” he said, and ducked his head, trying to ignore the way her hand was speeding up under the sheet. When he closed the door, he heard her come.

Or cry.

He wasn’t sure which.

He raked his fingers through his hair. He shouldn’t have had so much to drink. God he was so hard. He wanted her so bad.

But he resisted the urge to turn around and throw that door open again, pulling her into his arms and taking care of her in whatever way she needed. Not like this.

He went to his room, locked the door, and stripped. He jerked off so violently he wasn’t sure if he was finding release or punishing himself.