caught up in your love affair
the 100. indefinite period post 1x11. raven/bellamy, unrequited raven/finn, finn, clarke. r
I do not speak, but when I do, I am not afraid my eyes have shown too much.
I have not wrapped myself completely around what you think of me.
I have never been persuaded to love without condoms.
I never called it love when it should have been called penis.
Called it love when it should have been called lonely.
Called it love when it should have been called trying-too-hard.
She doesn’t actually notice it’s becoming a ‘thing’ like the next time she looks up and her gaze automatically lands on his hands. Again. Like they’ve started exerting a goddamned gravitational pull on their own since they slept together.
And when he turns, and catches her, again, there’s this one moment when she thinks of looking away, but the moment passes and she still hasn’t looked away, so.
“What?” His face on the expression spectrum falls beyond neutrality. Unreadable, almost. She’s kind of impressed. This is usually her sandpit.
When she does look back down, he doesn’t resume hammering, which means he’s either still staring, or, well, that he’s not still staring. That scenario reads a probability of one, and she likes certainty. Uncertainty is floating through space in an unequipped metal box, and look where that landed her.
“You do that a lot,” he observes, “have you noticed.”
It’s not a question, so she just flips him off, and that’s when it— oh.
Sleeping with Bellamy was strange in a way that sleeping with Finn isn’t. She’s used to Finn; Finn is family, Finn is easy, Finn is habit.
Getting familiarized to another body, having to catalogue an entire different set of reactions, an entirely different set of pressure points, an entirely different gaze is way more effort than it should be.
“God, you’re so fucking—” he says at one point, low, looking straight up at her, his hands still moving, and the blind panic that’s been caught somewhere in the center of her chest the entire time, ever since she realized that Finn and Clarke weren't going to come back that night, threatens to spill over; ugly and raw and wanting and dammit, she hates messes.
He shuts up, which is such a relief, she’s nearly light-headed with it.
That’s when it gets ridiculous.
“You’re doing it deliberately,” she says bluntly, when he picks his tools up for the sixth time in five days, and holds them in a way that borders on the indecent, caressing, almost, “and you’re fooling yourself into thinking this is subtlety, but it’s not.”
He shrugs, “stop looking.”
“I have functional eyes,” she say, and this argument really isn’t an argument at all, but it’s better than shutting up and having to deal with the charged silence, “I can’t stop looking.”
He leans against the work-table, like he’s waiting for her to— something. She has no idea what.
“Didn’t you mother ever sing that song to you when you were little,” she busies herself with the third bullet, “the one about how you can’t always get what you want. It survived more years than we’ll be alive, pretty sure there’s a life-lesson in there somewhere.”
It’s off the left field, and she’s not sure what the conversation is about anymore; sex, sure, but not entirely. He isn’t fazed, though, which is that annoying The Man Who Would Be King side of him. He's not even particularly good at it, but he's good enough at pretending, so you can't catch the difference if you aren't looking hard enough and she's--
“It’s what you take from the song,” he leans further back, and the streak of insolence she’d noticed the minute she set eyes on him, is unmistakable now, hardened into something bordering on casual intimacy. She doesn't like that, “I always thought the whole point was that sometimes? You get what you want.”
She has so much impractical information about him in her head right now; the way he tilts his head when he’s about to come, the exact calculation of both his pulse and his heartbeat, the sound of his throat scraped raw, that it’s probably pushing out the actually important, self-preservation, survival skills that she needs to stay alive and fuck her life. She’s literally and figuratively going to get screwed over because of two guys. Somehow, in the middle of being self-sufficient and smart enough to know better, she’s also the kind of person who jumps into a metal box in search of her true love and then fucks her loneliness away when said true love isn’t true or, you know, in love with her at all, and just fuck her life.
“If you want,” Finn and Clarke are standing by the fire, laughing, Clarke’s hair nearly glowing in the half-light. She can’t help the momentary jealousy and the derogatory princess under her breath, because she’s not awful, yeah, but she’s not an exceptionally nice person either, “to have sex with me, just say it.”
“I want,” he’s sitting next to her in the shadows and she can't remember if it was always like this or it's new, and she doesn't particularly want to. He's still swallowing from the flask, occasionally, throat moving, and she can remember him like this, even if she doesn’t particularly want to, “for you to want me."
"Like you haven't slept with half the camp," she snorts, and can't help her hand convulsively tightening into a fist, nails digging into her palm, when Finn leans down to whisper something in Clarke's ear.
She can feel the material of his jacket shift, where his arm is pressed against hers, as he raises it to take another swig, "guilty."
She thinks about that for a moment. The fact that she just slept with a guy who's probably slept with all the other girls within a twenty feet distance from her. That she wasn't anything special even to the only other guy she's slept with apart from the guy she loved, the guy who apparently thought she wasn't worth waiting ten days for.
Finds she doesn't care particularly, and lets it go. Special is overrated, she gets by fine enough without being it. She can fucking make bombs out of tin cans without being it, and that has to count for something.
“You can’t control what I want,” she says, finally, tries to not look at Finn and succeeds almost, which is success all on its own, or at least, she’s calling it that, so screw the rest, “you can only control what you want. So good luck starting there.”
“Which is why,” he says, like it’s an answer, which it’s not, if only technically, because nobody asked any questions, and she’s getting tired of him having all the answers to questions she's not asking, “I just want you to want it. I’m not physically manifesting it into being by wanting. You can’t control what I want.”
Which is so fucking stupid, it almost makes her forget what the question was.
“That’s quite a vocabulary for a janitor,” she manages, sarcastically, and honestly, she means it to sting, wants it to sting. Double check-mark the ‘not nice’ slot.
He just tips his flask towards her in a mock toast, “that’s quite a pair of claws for a raven.”
It happens again, of course. It’s been leading, and she’s smart enough to read both the text and the subtext.
There’s this moment, after, when she can’t find her bra, which makes her irrationally angry because that’s five more minutes than she absolutely needs to be here.
“if you stayed longer than five minutes,” his voice calls from behind, somewhere on the bed, still with his hands crossed beneath his head probably, undressed, sheet still on the ground, the way he was the last she looked at him, five minutes ago, “I promise not to make meaning out of it.”
She finds it, half hidden beneath a pile of his clothes, and shoves it in her pocket, "you're secretly the kind of person who mistakes accidents for fate, aren't you."
"And you," he says, "are the kind of person who mistakes systematic planning for accidents."
It makes her smile, almost, and she doesn't mean that, honestly.
It's been days since the third time, and she can't remember when she last saw him not surrounded by his minions. Which is good, because she has work to do anyway. He’s just passing her on his way out, not even looking at her, too engrossed in the group handling the targets.
“Did it help?”
It's the third time he's asking, and he's still not looking at her and fact is, she really should say no again, always; the bar’s set for release, not comfort.
But she hates information she can't use cluttering up her head, so, well.
“Ask me tomorrow," instead.