#im posting this today cos aby and hirva needed a pick me up after reading bad fic here u go guys hope y'all feel better

[prosciuttoe]

Hi! When you have time, can you please do a Bellarke fic with the prompt "I just moved in next door and I’m like 99% sure you’re insane AU" involving pranks. Thanks!

Funnily enough, Clarke only gets acquainted with her neighbour after he dumps a bucket of ice-cold water on her.

Granted, she would probably have found it a little funny if it hadn’t occurred at the end of a disastrous day, or maybe if she had been the intended target in the first place (look, it’s not unlike her to appreciate a prank) except she’s pretty sure she hears him yell, “Suck it, Murphy!” through the walls the second the bucket clatters noisily to the ground, leaving her soaking wet and shivering on her doorstep.

She’s not sure what’s more insulting, really: the fact that her neighbour at apartment 5B remains blissfully oblivious to the fact that she’s moved in for a week now, or that she fell for a prank that involves balancing a bucket on top of a door.

Still, it’s hard to summon the urge to confront him when she’s cold and wet and possibly sleep-deprived, so she puts it off in favor of a hot shower instead. He’s her neighbor, after all. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. She can talk to him about boundaries and stupidly simplistic pranks anytime.

Except he’s not home the next time she rings at his doorbell, and apparently she’s not over the whole situation like she thought she was, because the next thing she knows she’s smearing Vaseline all over one B.Blake’s (according to the nameplate by his mailbox) doorknob.

It’s only fair, okay?

She’s making a sandwich when she hears his key catch in the lock, a low string of curses following shortly after. It takes every bit of her willpower to keep from bursting into laughter at that, her shoulders shaking with the effort as his voice rises in pitch.

He must eventually get the door open though, because he pounds once against their connecting wall in what must be triumph, and faintly, she registers a smug, “Nice try, asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” Clarke mutters, glaring at the single, thin wall separating them, “you too. Dick.”

(That, as far as she’s concerned, is the beginning of the end.)

He douses her doormat with the honey the very next day, effectively ruining a pair of her favorite pumps. She retaliates by shoving every random catalogue and flyer from her mailbox into his instead, making sure to arrange it in the most haphazard and inconvenient way possible. He gets his revenge in the form of shaving cream smeared all over doorknob while she opts for planting gummy cockroaches all over his doorstep instead.

It’s passive-aggressive and childish and quite possibly, the most fun she’s had in years.

It’s mostly why she decides to keep up the ruse; forcing herself to stay in her seat instead of peeking at the peephole whenever she hears him at the door, or skittering out only when the hallways have gone quiet. It’s easier than it seems, considering her erratic hours at the ER. Besides, there’s no way that she’s ruining a perfectly pleasant feud, especially now that they’ve gained momentum.

She’s checking her mail and contemplating how mad B.Blake might be if she duct tapes an airhorn strategically to the side of his mailbox when a guy comes bounding up next to her, shooting her a brief, distracted smile before fitting his keys into the slot.

The slot to apartment 5B’s mailbox.

Gaping, she looks away, a flush working its way up her cheeks. It has to be some sort of karmic injustice that he’s here, going through his mail oh so casually when she’s standing right next to him. At this point, she has several options. One, sneak away. Two—

His gaze snaps over to her then, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. “Hey. You’re new, right?”

“Uh,” she manages, and yeah, it definitely is some sort of karmic injustice that B.Blake is stupidly hot; all messy hair and dark eyes and arms straining against his shirt. Ducking her head instinctively, she continues, “Not really? I’ve been here for about a month.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know there about the vacancies but apparently a lot of people have been moving out lately.” He says, wry, fingers sorting idly through the stack of envelopes in his hand. “I’m not exactly sure why, considering you have to pay an exorbitant amount of rent and deal with some pretty fucking difficult residents in this building, but I guess it’s good location-wise.”

Wetting her lips, she wipes her slick palms on the fabric of her jeans. “And by difficult, you mean…?”

“Oh,” he ducks his head on a laugh at that, shaking his head ruefully. “Okay, fine, to be more precise it’s just been one so far. John Murphy? Over at 5A? The guy has had it out for me ever since I told him to clear his takeout boxes from the hallway because it’s a fire hazard. Bastard’s been pranking me ever since.”

“Yikes.”

“It’s not that bad,” he shrugs, and this time she’s rewarded with a flash of teeth. “I have to give him some credit. He’s pretty inventive.”

“Wow,” she says, tilting her chin in mock consideration. “So, inventive like you with the whole bucket above the door trick?”

That pulls a frown out of him, brows furrowing together quizzically. “You heard about that?”

Well, the jig’s up. Taking a deep breath to brace herself, she raps her knuckles against her still-open mailbox, tapping a nail against the 5A painted by the side. “I was there, actually.”

There’s a beat as he seems to process this. Then, haltingly, “Wait— don’t tell me—”

“That Murphy moved out a few weeks back, and that your stunt actually doused me instead? Yeah,” she says, biting back a smile, “that’s exactly what happened, actually.”

He groans, falling back against the wall. “Fuck.” Then, narrowing his eyes over at her, “Why didn’t you say something? If I knew, well. Shit. Fuck.”

“I might have been enjoying myself a little too much by then.” She admits, the rest of her words trailing off into a laugh at his skeptical expression, “Oh, come on. You’re telling me that you didn’t have fun soaking my doormat in honey?”

“Only because you put Vaseline on my door.”

“Because you dropped a bucket of water on my head,” Clarke reminds him, grinning. He returns it; his smile wide and sincere, and the sight of it sends a rush of warmth all the way down to her toes. “You started it.”

“Unintentionally,” he points out, mock-solemn. “And honestly, I would have enjoyed myself a lot more if I knew that I was pranking a cute girl instead of Murphy.”

“Wow, that was very smooth.”

“I try,” he tells her, extending his hand out. “I’m Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.”

“Clarke Griffin,” she says, taking it. His palm is warm and dry in hers, nice, and yeah, Clarke thinks she has a pretty good feeling about him, “and, uh. Now is probably the time to tell you that I put gum in the keyhole of your apartment door.”

(He gets her back later by taking out the screws from her bedroom door, so it makes them even, really.)