fandom: the 100
characters: raven(/bellamy), clarke, octavia, (finn)
rating/warnings: pg13[warnings](hinting at child abuse/neglect)
word count: 877
prompt: raven/bellamy. i am giving you the entire story. you have already leafed through my pages. you have seen the whole show. your approval is not my concern. by youcallitwinter at fluffyfrolicker's all shall bow: multi-fandom women comment ficathon
a/n: sorry not sorry
She dreams of a cool knife on her skin.
Or in her hand, on a neck that is smooth or rough.
It doesn't matter because she wakes up.
(Who has time for dreams anyway?)
She watches him saunter out of his tent without a shirt on (again) and there's a roll to his hips that tells her he's watched men with narrowed eyes (discreetly), mimicking the motions of a leader with an air that makes her sick with memory.
(She catches his girls once and gives them all the contraceptive tips she has in her arsenal. Their eyebrows raise and there's a smile at the corner of their lips that tells her they know.)
When she takes Bellamy in and rides him slow and hard, she thinks of that corner pulled up at the lips, of the things people know about her. She wonders briefly if they'll ever know her any other way.
He may be the only one with a sister.
But no one had a mother like Raven.
We all have our crosses to bear, she mumbles as she pulls her shirt back down her back and slips her toes into her boots (she rarely bothers lacing them anymore).
We're both too attractive for our own good. A curse, really. His voice is lazy with sex and she wants to feel proud of that, of making him thick and heavy and wanting, wants to kiss the smirk off his mouth. Instead she gives him an update on her weapon stash and walks out of the tent.
(He doesn't keep the girls anymore. Or he does. She tells herself it doesn't matter either way.)
(She sits in war councils and doesn't notice Clarke's hand in Finn's and the way Bellamy doesn't seem to know where to look or what to want.
She sits in war councils and tells herself that she belongs there. She doesn't think about Bellamy's body beneath hers.
She doesn't think of her mother.
She doesn't feel her face with her fingers and wonder if her mother's eyes are staring out at them and they know.
She puts her elbows on her knees and makes suggestions. She keeps her voice hard and strong. She doesn't linger, she doesn't let her voice catch, she doesn't question her right to be there.
She doesn't ask herself if they do.)
They always whisper.
Someone is always whispering.
She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and reaches for more of Monty's moonshine. She already got a rousing lecture from Clarke about drinking while making bullets. She laughed through most of it and clapped her flat palm on Clarke's back. (And tried not to notice her heart drop to her feet when the princess smiled at her like everything was okay and they were friends. Tried not to notice the naked hope that Clarke is always going to be so terrible at hiding.
It'd be endearing if it didn't make her want to pull her blonde hair out by the roots, just to see if it would grow back dark if she had to start over. Everyone has to start over sometime.
It would feel like poetry, being the one to rip Clarke up by the roots and bring her back to life. Haven't they already done this to each other before? Weren't they always the ones dancing around beginnings and endings together?)
You can carry hope in your eyes and still have a heart heavy with darkness. Isn't she proof enough of that?
What is a friend, anyway?
"A friend is the bitch who drinks your moonshine when you are on the job so Clarke doesn't rip you a new one. Again." Octavia quips in that way that makes Raven seriously doubt she spent as much time under the floor as people say.
(She closes her eyes and doesn't count in her head the number of nights she spent with her eyes screwed tight and her hands over her ears, daring not to breathe, daring not to move,
When she opens her eyes, Octavia is still there, and Raven smiles back at her because rumors will never be truth - and rarely in the way people think.
Life is a prison of memories. What counts is how you escape.
Or... what counts is how you keep living even when you are trapped.)
That night, her legs wrapped around Bellamy's waist, she doesn't stop him when he laughs into her neck and whispers, "I hear Clarke chewed you out for drinking on duty today."
She doesn't put her finger to his lips and tell him to shut up. She doesn't hold up her end of the bargain. She doesn't keep the gates closed.
She rolls her eyes and shrugs, "Yeah. You know Clarke."
And their eyes meet.
Everyone knows everyone on the Ark. That's how small communities work.
Everyone knows everyone on Earth. They all have their parts to play.
Okay so she slipped up and pretended that she was living someone else's story for a second. So she met his eye and smiled back.
So she'll pick the script back up where she left it tomorrow.