#the gilmore girls universe works well for bellarke tbh

[prosciuttoe]

Congrats on your milestoneeeee (and your book)! Prompt: Gilmore Girls AU with Clarke as Rory and Bellamy as Jess and all the 100 gang corresponding to some quirky character in stars hollow please :)

A|N: This ended up being a mix of bellarke being jess/rory and also luke/lorelai all at once because, well… I’m a mess. Sorry love, hope you like it! 

p.s: You guys don’t have to have watched gilmore girls to read this! Just think small-town bellarke being cute. The end.

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You see, the thing is, Bellamy doesn’t set out to be the town’s asshole. It just sort of happens.

It starts because it doesn’t occur to him that this arrangement he has with Kane is permanent. He figures that it’s only a matter of time before he and Octavia are allocated to another foster family, considering Kane is single and owns a diner and basically has a laundry list of traits that makes him a less-than-ideal foster parent. He fully expects to be gone by July; August latest. And in the meantime, he’ll just go on with his life without putting down roots. Simple.

Of course, this loosely translates to him being standoffish and rude to most, hence the label. Not that he minds, all that much, since it ensures that he’s left alone most of the time. He has his books and his job and Octavia. That’s all Bellamy needs, really.

Until Clarke Griffin comes into his life, and proceeds to fuck everything up.

The first time he meets her, she’s behind the counter of the diner, helping herself to the coffee pot.

“Hey!” he barks, crossing the room in three easy strides and herding her out into the open, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She blinks over at him, hands still clenched protectively over her cup. Then, suspiciously, “I’m— wait. Where’s Marcus?”

“Out.” He snaps, slinging a dish towel over his neck. “Look, I’m not sure what your deal is, Princess. But where I’m from, we pay for the stuff we get.”

She bristles at that, her gaze cold as she sizes him up. “I had every intention of paying. Ask your goddamn boss, he can vouch for me.”

“Well, luckily for you, he’s not available at the moment.” He shoots her a thin smile at that, extending his palm out. “That would be a dollar fifty.”

He’s expecting her to storm out after, or throw a tantrum, at the very least- so it definitely comes as a shock when she plops down by the counter instead, sipping at her coffee before she cracks open a book.

“You know,” he manages, once he’s composed himself. “That’s actually a to-go cup.”

That earns him a saccharine sweet smile on her part; practiced and distinctly condescending. “Well, I’m not planning on disrupting my morning routine on your account.”

“Glad to hear of it.” He deadpans, giving her a sarcastic half-bow of sorts before retreating back to the kitchen. (It doesn’t help that she’s reading Ender’s Game, which has been on his to-read list for months. He almost wished that she had bad taste so he could hate her for it.)

She comes back the next day, and the day after, too; always with a different book in hand but with the same breakfast order of black coffee and waffles. She always sits by the counter-  despite the numerous free tables available- and finds a way to get under his skin constantly. Whether it’s the incessant tapping of her nails against the countertop or folding the pages of her book or even, god forbid, writing in the margins. It drives him fucking crazy, to the point where it’s impossible to stay quiet about it.

Look, Bellamy is committed to his cause of self-isolation, okay? But not enough to idly look by as someone vandalizes a book.

“If you’re going to start defacing your book again, I’d prefer it if you didn’t sit here.” He points out, curt, the next time he spots her with a pencil clenched between her teeth. “It ruins my appetite for pop tarts.”

“How is writing in the margins considered a sacrilegious act?” Clarke points out, mild, tilting her chin over at him in challenge. “If anything, it enhances the reading experience. I get to look back at my notes and see if I think of the book any differently now.”

“You can reflect on it without actually writing it down in your book.”

She shakes her head at that, exasperated. Then, thrusting the book out at him, “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, mister.”

“Fine.”

(Bellamy thinks he catches a glimpse of a smile, then, but it could just be a trick of light.)

His initial plan had mostly involved ignoring her notes in the margins so as to prove a point, but he fails miserably in the end anyway. Her words are magnetic; insightful and intriguing and wholly impossible to miss, and there are times where he finds himself enjoying her thoughts more than the text itself. He finds himself writing back most of the time and it’s almost easy to fall into a routine of sorts, after that; leaving pieces of themselves in between the pages and picking out the details found in the blank spaces.

They’re well through December when he realizes that he’s not going anywhere, and that he’s pretty much half in love with Clarke.

“You should probably tell her before the rest of the town does,” Miller tells him. They’re friends- despite his best attempts at resistance- and Miller likes to drop by for breakfast before heading to his job over at the inn. “It’s not like you’re subtle, or anything.”

Bellamy can’t help but scowl a little at that. “I thought it would be a non-issue considering how half this town hates me.” He points out grouchily. “I’m an asshole, remember?”

“Yeah, but, like,” he searches for the words, shrugging, “an endearing asshole. One with a love life that a lot of people are way too invested in.”

Groaning, he drops his head onto the counter with a solid thump. “Great. Just what I wanted.”

“Just tell her before Jasper does.” Miller sighs, patting at his shoulder in what he supposes is a comforting gesture. The intended effect is more awkward than it is soothing, but Bellamy lets it slide. “That guy is a major gossip.”

He mulls over it all through the lunch hour rush crowd, fucking up several orders in the process until Kane takes pity on him and shoves him behind the cashier instead. He doesn’t do any better in that regard either considering how it all goes out of the window the second Clarke walks through the door, toting a basket in hand.

“Do I want to know?” he asks, jerking his chin over at the garland of ribbons weaved over the basket handles.

“It’s a Stars Hollow tradition,” she frowns, dropping the basket onto the counter. “Well, an outdated and antiquated one, at least. Women make the baskets, and the guys bid on them for the food and the company.” She punctuates the statement with a exaggerated roll of her eyes. “I tried asking Jaha if the guys could provide the baskets this time, and he nearly bit my head off.”

Grabbing at the mug that he’s beginning to think of as Clarke’s, he fills it with coffee, sliding it into her grasp. “So why participate, then?”

She shrugs, picking at the ragged ends of the ribbon. “It’s tradition, you know? Far be it for me to break it. Besides, I have some intel that Finn Collins is planning on bidding on mine this year, and he’s not all that bad.”

“Finn Collins?” he gapes. “As in, boyband? As in, the guy who works over at the minimart?”

“Uh, I could do worse.”

“I don’t see how anyone is worse than Finn Collins,” he declares, hating the petulant note in his voice. “That guy barely has two brain cells to rub together.”

She fixes him with a look at that, inscrutable. “It’s not like I’m drowning in prospective bidders as of the moment.”

For some stupid reason, he flushes. “Right.”

There’s a tense, awkward beat, as if she’s expecting him to say something else in response.

“So, anyway,” she says, averting her gaze. “I should probably get going. The bidding is starting up in a bit and I don’t want to be late.”

He blinks, has to remind himself to wipe the flummoxed expression off his face. “See you?”

“Yup.” She says, shooting him a tight, almost pained, smile. He watches her go for half a second, still attempting to reorder his thoughts into something comprehensible—

It all falls into place then- coming into the diner, her disappointment at his apparent disinterest- and he finds himself scrambling through the drawers of the cash register, muttering out a hasty excuse before emptying it and charging out.

“Hey!” he calls out, before she can get any further. “Shit. Clarke.”

She stops in her tracks, her expression quizzical as he draws up next to her, panting.

“Sixty.” He says, in between breaths.

“What?”

Pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket, he presses it into her palm, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Sixty for your basket,” he says, swallowing. “And your company.”

She stares at him, the minutes dragging on—

Before she breaks out into a smile, bright and fucking delighted, pulling one from him as well. “Took you long enough,” she goes, beaming, before looping her arm around his. “Can you spare a few minutes?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, reaching over to lace their fingers together; planting him in place. “I have time.”