Sorry for the delay. I'm writing two other Bellarke stories lol.
Octavia and Raven exchanged glances.
"Clarke, you want to talk about whatever's eating at you?" Raven asked.
The blonde stared at her coffee cup, silent and numb to her surroundings.
"Did we break her?" Octavia wondered.
"I think Bellamy might have, actually."
Clarke's eyes finally rose to her roommates. "What?"
The two girls sighed. "Clarke, we're not blind. You've been super touchy feely with Bell lately. And vice versa. What's going on? Are you hitting that?"
Clarke gaped, pulled from her reverie. "What? No! Bellamy and I are just…"
"Friends don't molest each other during movie night," Octavia interrupted.
Clarke kicked her under the table. "It's not like that. I'm not sure what it is."
They waited, and she crumbled.
"I mean, Bellamy initiated it. But I asked him to keep going. And it kind of spiraled out of control from there."
Raven slapped Octavia's arm, open-mouthed, amazed. Clarke groaned.
"It doesn't seem like he wants to touch me, and yet he does. I don't know if I'm…forcing it on him. But then the other night, it felt more like a competition. On the other hand, when we went clubbing, he's the one who asked me to stay, and the dance got a little—"
"Ahbababa!" Octavia covered her ears. "Not too graphic please."
Clarke nodded, her mind too jumbled to laugh, her heart too disorientated. "I don't know what's gotten into me."
"Clarke there's a basic question you're just too afraid to answer," Raven said seriously.
Octavia poured her another cup of coffee.
"Do you or don't you like Bellamy?"
OoO
Bellamy was beyond confused.
At first he thought it might have been a hormonal thing, but he knew Clarke, all of her, and this was new territory.
Was this her way of asking for sex?
Because he wasn't sure he could go through with it, knowing it would be a one-time thing. That he'd have to see her in his head every night after that, his to love, his to hold, while she moved on.
He knew Clarke had her flings, and obviously, he did too—he just never pictured her being one of them.
OoO
"Vegas…" Clarke repeated.
"This weekend."
"Okay, well some of us have jobs, Jasper," Bellamy muttered.
"Some of us also own our very own business and can afford one weekend if need be." Monty pointedly glared at the two of them.
"You guys have been workaholics this past lifetime. Come on," Jasper pleaded.
The others nodded. Bellamy and Clarke were known for their bad work habits. If Clarke had a serious case, she wouldn't be seen for weeks. If Bellamy was in a mood, we wouldn't come out of his garage. It could get pretty bad.
"Okay…but, tickets?" Clarke tried.
Jasper smirked, smacking his pocket. "Got 'em."
Clarke glanced at Bellamy, the only other adult in the room, apparently. He met her gaze, then gave an imperceptible shrug.
She wrinkled her nose.
"Fine."
OoO
"So are the others just meeting us at the airport or…?" Clarke wondered as they pulled up to the drop off area.
"The others?" Jasper asked in a high voice. A high, suspicious voice.
"Yeah. The gang."
"Oh see," he said, turning off the car, avoiding Clarke and Bellamy's stern gazes, "turns out the rest of us can't go…"
What the fuck.
"The hell? What do you mean?" Bellamy hissed from the backseat.
"Sorry. But we all agreed you two needed a break the most, so we pitched in and bought you tickets for a vacation at the Strip."
"Don't try to turn it around and make it sound like a fucking gift, Jasper."
"I'm sorry. But no one else can go. Honest. Are you really going to waste your days off and all this money?"
Clarke glared at Jasper, then back at Bellamy.
His temple throbbed like it did when he tried to think through his anger.
He worked his jaw, then his eyes trailed to hers.
A question. An open question.
Clarke pressed her lips together. A freaking vacation alone in a suite with Bellamy Blake. She was going to die.
"Give me the fucking tickets, Jasper."
OoO
Clarke was hell-bent on getting a window seat. Unfortunately, Bellamy seized the last one.
"Are you serious? You know how much I love the window seat," she pouted.
"Tough, Princess."
"Bellamy…"
She glanced around the rest of the airplane, but seats were filling up quickly, and all of her asshole friends were absent. Was it weird to sit with someone else?
He sighed, standing up and moving aside for her. A real life superhero.
"Thank you."
She didn't know why she did it—overcome with gratitude, possessed by the relief of not having to sit next to a stranger—but she leaned up and pecked him on the cheek. Only, she missed slightly, and she got the corner of his mouth. Felt the curve of his lips. The slight scratch of his chin.
Bellamy didn't register the action, but he also didn't look at her when he sat back down.
Clarke cursed at herself for having no self control whatsoever.
OoO
Clarke had worked extra hours last night to make up for her absence this weekend, so her exhaustion made the plane ride a fucking blast.
She tried leaning her head against the window, but it was vibrating, and it gave her a headache. After shifting around a ton, Bellamy cleared his throat.
"Can you pick a fucking position already?"
She chuckled. "No. The window seat sucks."
He laughed under his breath. "Then you can sleep on my shoulder…if you want."
The uncertainty was present, and it sent daggers in her chest. The awkwardness was still there, not blatant, but present, under the surface. Waiting to strike. She hated it.
Clarke wasn't sure she could sleep against him without going ballistic. Every time they made contact, her body couldn't be trusted. His touch did things to her she did not approve of. And he knew that.
She flicked her gaze in his direction, and his expression stood somewhere between highly amused and slightly afraid.
"I might drool on you," she warned.
"I know."
Cautiously, she drew down the armrest between them, allowing her to scoot closer. She took the liberty of stealing his blanket and spreading it over the both of them, then snuggling up against his right side.
She set her head on his shoulder, surprised at how comfortable such an awkward position could be.
Bellamy sighed, letting his temple graze the top of her head.
She felt strange still, only touching at one point. She felt disconnected.
Stealthily, she slid her hand under the blanket to his forearm, down to his hand, ghosting over his fingers. He was quick to accept her hand, and he linked their fingers, squeezing once.
She smiled.
OoO
"Jesus, Clarke," Bellamy complained. "How much did you bring?"
She glared at him over her stack of bags. It really wasn't that much.
"Enough."
He scoffed as he hoisted her bag over his shoulder and swiped the key to their door.
They shuffled inside, eager to see what room they'd been given. Jasper had called in a reservation at some fancy ass hotel. Clarke was praying for a Jacuzzi.
They stared at the suite. Or more specifically, at the single bed in the middle of the room.
Clarke dropped her bags.
It was okay. They were adults. They could handle it.
Neither of them moved an inch, and she caught Bellamy's sideways glance.
"Pool?" she offered.
He nodded, and they both avoided the bedroom area as they hurried to change.
OoO
Bellamy watched Clarke struggle with her sunscreen.
The stubborn shit wasn't going to ask him to help her. Not after…everything.
But wasn't it pervy of him to rub her back with lotion? Or was it the duty of a best friend?
He sort of missed the days when she hated his guts, and he could tease her and check her out without feeling guilty.
"Do you need some help with that?"
The male voice slapped Bellamy back to the present. A man stood at the edge of Clarke's recliner, eyebrow quirked.
Gross. Was that a thing? Walking up to women and asking them if they need help with sunscreen? If someone did that to Octavia Bellamy would rip their balls out.
Clarke flushed, then glanced back at Bellamy.
It was a question. A silent, curious test.
And Bellamy would answer, if the coiling jealousy in his stomach was anything to go by.
"I got this, man, thanks," he said as nonchalantly as possible.
The man grinned and backed away awkwardly.
Clarke watched carefully as Bellamy strode toward her, sitting down next to her on the lounger. "Turn," he instructed, snatching the sunscreen out of her hands.
She did as she was told, pulling her hair around to the front of her body. Missing a few strands.
Bellamy gently draped the strays over her shoulder, grazing her neck with his knuckles.
He squirted an ass ton of sunscreen on his hands and swore under his breath. He was used to his own body, not Clarke's. He sighed, rubbing his hands together to warm up the excessive amount of lotion.
Swallowing, he placed his hands on her back. She jolted slightly, then bent her head, ready.
Bellamy slid his hands up to her shoulder blades, back down to her lower back. The thick-strapped bikini got in the fucking way.
"Want me to—"
She nodded.
He smirked and slid his hands under the straps, gliding along her skin. She was so soft and warm and fuck, what was he doing?
He rubbed it in the best he could without getting any more turned on than he already was. Then he snapped the strap back into place, just to kill the tension. She yelped, swatting at him, and he laughed.
OoO
"I'm not swimming, Clarke."
"I know."
He lowered his book, watching her approach him, dripping wet.
"Then get the fuck away from me," he said, realizing her intentions.
She grinned, and just as he moved to get up, to get away, she pinned him to the lawn chair. Her wet hair dripped onto his chest and he frowned up at her.
"Don't you fucking dare, Clarke."
She grinned that mischievous smile and lowered herself on top of him, chin resting on her hands over his chest like a demon.
The cold sank into him, her wet skin pressed against his.
He winced.
"I hate you."
"You love me."
He quirked an eyebrow.
"You're warm," she observed thoughtfully, snuggling closer, spreading her hands out over his chest.
He had been.
"You're heavy and cold and I hate you," he hissed. She trembled, laughing. He could feel everything when she moved like that, and he was forced to use all his self control not to show it.
Shit, he probably deserved this, didn't he?
When he looked down at her, she was watching him, thoughtful, curious, and he matched her intensity. There were specks of water on her cheeks, like freckles, and she looked so goddamn beautiful. He couldn't stop his hand from brushing away a piece of wet hair behind her ear.
That's when her smile faded, and she blinked, turning away like she was flustered.
Bellamy watched her walk off to grab them some martinis, missing the curves of her body pressed flush against him. Missing her skin. Her smell.
But most of all, missing their normalcy.
OoO
After the pool incident, the only way Clarke was getting through this trip was alcohol.
Lots of alcohol.
She'd been in a flirty mood, expecting him to flirt back, to challenge her like that night on the couch. But instead he'd had this look in his eyes like...like this wasn't just a game to him, as if Clarke was something special, something different. She couldn't allow herself to believe that. She couldn't fool herself into hoping that Bellamy actually...
She downed another shot, and her company glanced at her warily.
"Are you...good?"
"I'm excellent."
"Maybe you should slow it down—"
"Bellamy, I'm in Vegas. What's the point if I don't get wasted?"
He nodded silently, frowning.
"Don't hold back just because I'm drinking!" she thought suddenly. "I expect you to be my drunk buddy, Bell. Not my chaperone." Her eyes roamed the casino, landing on a table and a familiar array of cards. She seized Bellamy's wrist. "Play Jack Black with me."
"I think you mean Blackjack."
"That's what I said."
Bellamy rolled his eyes but didn't protest as she dragged him over to the table.
OoO
"We're rich, bitches!"
"Clarke, we won like five dollars. And we spent five times that much on drinks."
She laughed, waltzing down the hallway.
"You're not drunk enough, Bellamy."
"I didn't want you running off getting a tattoo. Or getting married to some random guy."
"Ugh, you're a life ruiner."
He rolled his eyes again. "Okay, Princess, are you through?"
She yanked the door open dramatically.
"Through."
They strode inside the room and paused at the sight of the bed. Clarke glanced at him, then sat down on the floor with her back to the mattress.
Bellamy stared at her, but he decided he had nothing else to do but join her on the carpet.
"Fuck. I drank way too much," she admitted.
"I thought that was the point."
"The point is stupid."
Bellamy grinned as Clarke curled into herself, already feeling the effects of post-buzz exhaustion. He wasn't sober by any means, but he hadn't wanted to lose Clarke in a crowd, so he'd measured his intake. He wasn't worried about Clarke's capability. He was more concerned that the pool guy would show up again and Clarke would leave with him for the night.
"Bellamy?" she whispered, head in her knees. He waited. "I'm glad we came."
He smiled, leaning his head back against the bed. When he looked over at her, she was breathing softly. Asleep.
Bellamy rolled his eyes.
He locked his arm beneath her legs and the other around her torso, picking her up bridal style.
Slowly, he carried her to the mattress—the right side, her favorite—and set her down carefully. Blond locks splayed out over his bedspread, and heat shot through his nervous system.
He rolled her—the fucking deep sleeper—into a more comfortable position. As he began to pull away, something snatched his collar.
Clarke's hand fisted his shirt, and he glared down at her closed eyes.
"Clarke?"
She pulled him closer, and he slipped forward over her, cursing silently.
She blinked lazily at him, probably still half-asleep. But coherent enough to urge him closer.
What. What was this?
An invitation to stay?
He allowed her to pull him down over her, until their faces were practically touching.
Then her hand moved from his shirt to his neck, and she hugged him softly, tiredly, fondly.
Bellamy couldn't resist her.
Accepting, he buried his face into her hair and slipped his arm between her back and the mattress.
Their body warmth together was blistering.
His heart jumped sporadically in his chest, concerned about where this was leading.
But Clarke merely snuggled into him, holding tightly.
After a moment of neither of them moving, he brought himself fully up onto the mattress, rolling them on their sides. Her legs intertwined with his like it was instinctual, and his hands rested under her shirt, against her rib cage, while hers found his neck, his hair, and she sighed happily into the nook of his shoulder.
Clarke hummed, and he knew she wasn't asleep, maybe just drunk enough to make her delirious. The thought of her drunkenly pursuing him felt rotten, and he was about to pull away when she placed a soft kiss at his jawline. He sucked in, surprise stealing his breath. She trailed up his jaw to his cheek to the corner of his mouth.
"How drunk are you on a scale from one to ten?" he whispered, and she chuckled, leaning closer.
"Enough to finally do what I should have done two years ago," she reasoned as her lips hovered over his. His eyes expanded, and he was about to press her further, but then she kissed him, hot and wet and stubborn.
Bellamy's right hand cradled the back of her head so he could deepen the kiss, his left meandering up her shirt, pausing just below her bra strap.
He wanted her so badly.
But not like this. Not with so much confusion churning in his head. The fear of heartbreak around the corner.
He tensed, pulling away before he could stop himself.
"Clarke, listen…" he breathed shakily. He had to get it out. He had to preserve what they had. "I need to know what you want from me…"
Her hold slackened, and the warmth drained from their embrace.
Finally, she opened her eyes, orbs of blue heat.
They were swimming with tears.
"Clarke?"
She twisted away, and he broke.
"Hey," he pleaded, but she was already sitting up, bouncing up off the bed. Fumbling. Shaking. "Come on, Clarke, just…talk to me."
She paused, turning back.
"I don't know how to anymore," she confessed.
