A series of bellarke oneshots

When you tear it apart its just DNA

Not mine

Clarke doesn't leave her room the day final grades are announced. She makes some lame excuse to Octavia and Raven to get out of breakfast at Rosie's and plunks herself on the couch, her laptop in front of her and a plate piled high with toaster waffles on her lap. The grades are supposed to be up by 11 am, and by 10:30 her stomach is in knots so tight she's scared the waffles are going to make another appearance.

She tries watching old Saturday Night Live sketches to distract herself, but they are no use. The only thing she can think about are her grades- more specifically, that one grade. The one that determines if she is able to maintain her 4.0 GPA. The one that will prove to her mom that she is serious about art. The one that will ensure she passes the class and is no longer a student of-

Her frantic thoughts are interrupted by a heavy knock on the door.

"Clarke?"

Five Months Earlier

If your professor dies in the middle of the semester, do you get an A?

Clarke chuckles to herself as she sends the text to the group chat she shares with Octavia and Raven. It takes about two seconds to get a reply from the latter.

If your lab partner is an obnoxious ass who thinks he invented thermodynamics, does it still count as murder?

"Excuse me, young lady, would you mind telling me your name?"

Clarke looks up to find her professor looming over her desk.

"Clarke Griffin, sir."

Professor Wallace grins, placing a shaking, withered hand over the textbook on her desk. "Miss Griffin. Cell phone use is prohibited in this class," he wheezes. "Texting or Facebook-ing whomever is your boyfriend this week can wait."

"I apologize, Professor." Clarke quickly pockets her phone and flashes him a smile. "And I'm sure my girlfriend can wait." Wallace harrumphs and shuffles back to the front of the classroom, where he continues reading off every single thing from their six-page long syllabus.

She stews in her seat for the next ten minutes, fantasizing about stretching her legs out just a bit to trip Professor Wallace as he paces in front of her desk for the umpteenth time.

Stupid heteronormative asshole.

"Oh, hello Mister Blake!" Wallace interrupts his droning as the door opens and a familiar face steps inside. "Class, this is Bellamy Blake. He is a graduate student here and will be my TA for the semester. You will be referring to him for most questions you'll have throughout the course given that I am the newly elected department chair and am far too busy."

Clarke gapes as Bellamy sets his stack of papers down on Wallace's desk and comes to stand beside him. He's wearing his thick black-rimmed glasses, which absolutely does not make Clarke's mouth go dry, just like his crisp white button down doesn't make him look absolutely delicious with the way it stretches across his muscled chest. He has the sleeves rolled up so that his thick forearms are exposed, and the muscles ripple when he runs a hand through his thick, curly locks. He meets her gaze and his lips turn up into a smirk. He doesn't look surprised to see her, which tells her that he knew she was going to be in the class and he didn't say anything.

She narrows her eyes as Wallace continues his lecture. Bellamy just winks in response.

When class is over, Clarke sneaks out the door and whips her phone out of her pocket.