a/n I guess I've written too much smut recently so we're starting the weekend off early. Huge thanks to Stormkpr for betaing this and to the folks on Twitter who gave me the prompt and then forgave me for taking so long to write it. Happy reading!
Clarke never meant to adopt the cat.
She sighs, shakes her head. This is the third morning running it has shown up at the door of her tent, clawing at the tattered nylon and demanding food. Well, then. It seems like she has adopted the cat, whether she meant to or not.
She adds it to the list of unintended developments that have come her way since she landed on Earth. She never meant to become the leader of a bunch of scared teenagers. She never meant to find herself acting as sole doctor, either. And she sure as hell never meant to start sleeping with Bellamy Blake.
All things considered, she seems to have had a lot of accidents, this week. Probably a stray cat pestering her is the least of her worries.
She shoves the cat none too gently aside and goes to look for food. She looks for food because she wants to eat, not because she's about to be moved by the plight of an uninvited feline, of course. She doesn't even feel that bad about pushing the cat aside because, to be clear, it's not her cat and it's not welcome here. She hopes that it might get the message, if she carries on like this. She hopes that she seems unfriendly, but not mean enough to actually hurt it. She's only repaying the cat in kind – it's far from cuddly or gentle, in her experience of its behaviour in recent days.
She reaches the dropship, scans around for any leftover food. She takes an apple for herself, shoves it into her pocket. But cats can't eat apples, and now she's here she figures it would be mean not to take at least something back for her uninvited guest.
Damn it. Her mum was right. She really is too kind for her own good, too easily tempted to try and take care of everyone.
"Clarke?"
Bellamy's deep voice makes her jump. She tries to style it out smoothly, spins on the spot instantly as if she's just overjoyed to see him. That's an appropriate greeting when they've hooked up a couple of times, right?
"Are you OK?" He continues, and she thinks he might sound concerned.
"Yeah. Great. Fine." She swallows. "Just grabbing breakfast. And – um – something for the cat."
Bellamy laughs, a rich, warm sound. "Of course you are, Princess. Got to feed your mascot."
She frowns. "Do Princesses have mascots?" She's a curious sort, after all, and she's learnt from experience that there's not much point snapping at him not to call her that nickname.
Maybe she likes it when he calls her that. Just a little.
"I don't know. Didn't they used to have dogs and horses and hawks?" He asks, leaning on the wall as if he's settling in for a long debate.
No. She can't have that. She can't stand around chatting to Bellamy all day about things that don't matter. She has people to lead, wounds to stitch. A cat to feed.
And anyway, based on their track record in recent days she thinks they'll have time to catch up in his tent tonight.
…...
She's right, it turns out. Well, almost right. Tonight, he comes to her.
She's surprised at that. The handful of times they've hooked up so far, it's been a case of him approaching her at the fire pit in the evening and inviting her over to his.
Inviting her over is a euphemism. It's been a case of him ambushing her behind the dropship near the fire pit, and shoving her up against the wall, and sticking his tongue down her throat. She's not complaining. He manages to do it tastefully, somehow. Or maybe she's just very pathetically attracted to him.
But tonight he wasn't around when she was heading to bed, so she's headed back to her tent alone.
Well, alone but for the cat. But the cat cleared off once she fed it, so that's fine.
She's surprised, therefore, when Bellamy shows up at her tent scarcely half an hour later. He doesn't come to her, she's pretty sure. That's not a thing that they do. And yet here he is, already half way through the door, smirking at her like they had a date planned or something.
"You good?" He asks.
What does that even mean? Is he here to talk camp strategy, or to ask after someone's health, or to get laid? He really could communicate better, she thinks scornfully.
"I'm good. You?"
"Not bad. You ran off before I could say goodnight though." He accuses her playfully.
Huh. "I wasn't aware we had plans." She sounds haughty, she hopes. She's playing the part of Princess, after all.
He doesn't rise to it. He doesn't even vaguely rise to it. He just smirks a little, steps up into her personal space.
And then he kisses her full on the lips.
Again, she finds, he comes on fast. He's all teeth and tongues and urgency, roaming hands and eager lips, his half-hard cock already jutting into her hip through their clothes. She wonders how he does it, really. How does he juggle these different sides of his personality? How does he manage to be so soft with his sister, so firm in his leadership, and so hot and hard in bed?
Before long, she stops wondering such things, and simply embraces the moment. She doesn't go with the flow, as such – she's far too accustomed to taking the lead for that, and she thrives on being an active participant in her own life. But in this game she plays with Bellamy, her being an active participant means choosing to be soft and pliant beneath his hands, opting to let someone else run the show for a change.
So it is that she melts beneath his kisses and welcomes him to take the lead.
He knows the script. Before long he's pushing her gently onto her knees before him, bending her over until she rests on all fours. And then he's easing inside of her from behind, quickly picking up the pace until they're both panting with pleasure.
"That's good, Clarke. So good."
She only preens a little at his praise. It would be silly to let it go to her head. She's not really doing anything, after all. She's chosen to sit here and take a more passive role for a change, and she figures that means she's not entitled to take much credit for Bellamy's arousal. She's just a warm body, and he's the one putting the work in.
She's pretty certain he could find a dozen other willing warm bodies around camp, but she's not inclined to mention it. That seems a little self-defeating. And maybe there's something else about this he likes, she wonders. Maybe he enjoys the dynamic of putting her in her place for a change.
She stops worrying about it. That's one of the reasons she enjoys these hookups with Bellamy – they're a chance to stop worrying, for a few precious minutes. To just let go and concentrate on the feel of his nails digging lightly into her waist and him rocking his hips against her hard enough to leave her tailbone deliciously bruised.
He's close now. She can feel it. And this is what she loves the most – those times when she sends Bellamy unhinged with pleasure and gets off on the thrill of it in turn.
"Clarke. Clarke, I'm gonna -"
She knows what he needs. She spares a hand, balancing carefully, to reach back and squeeze his forearm in reassurance. To tell him it's OK, that she's there too, that she likes it when he falls apart for her.
They get there at much the same time, Bellamy muttering a muffled curse that ends on a sigh, Clarke clenching hard around him.
And then they kneel there together for a few seconds, the silence broken only by the sound of their urgent breathing.
Clarke's heart rate is almost back to normal by the time she starts to wonder what's going on. Why is Bellamy still here? Why is he still clutching at her waist, still holding her close?
Why is he lying down on her bedroll as if he owns the place?
"You alright, Princess?"
She nods, flustered. Of course she's alright. She just doesn't understand why the hell Bellamy is acting like he intends to take a nap here. She's not trying to stop that from happening, of course, because she quite likes the blissful oblivion that comes with being surrounded by his strong arms. She just thinks it's an interesting development.
Slowly, cautiously, giving him time to object, she lies down at his side. But then he doesn't object at all – rather, he wraps an arm around her and pulls her close up to his chest, as if sharing post-coital cuddles is something they do all the time.
Maybe she ought to say something. Maybe she ought to assure him that she's cool with this – that she is a fan of the idea, even. Maybe she ought to make it clear that he's welcome to hang around for a cuddle whenever he likes.
It's too late. His breathing is already softening into a gentle snore.
…...
He doesn't take a nap, in the end. No, he stays the whole night, sleeps right through till morning. And Clarke does likewise, only waking up disorientated and wondering why she has a bedmate two or three times.
It's just been a while, OK? It's been a while since she had anything resembling the comfort and companionship of a relationship.
No. That's silly. This isn't a relationship, and she mustn't go thinking otherwise. This is some convenient hooking up, and Bellamy happens to have stayed over because he fell asleep, and that's all there is to it.
She wakes up first in the morning. She lies still for a while, relishing the moment. And then Bellamy rolls over, yawning widely, and smirks at her.
"You still here, Princess?"
She bristles in indignation. It might be slightly staged. "This is my tent."
He has no response to that. He only smirks wider. And then, the odd development to crown all odd developments, he leans forward to kiss her softly on the forehead.
He stands up, starts pulling his clothes back on, makes ready to leave. Clarke follows his lead for want of anything better to do. She begins dressing quickly, keen to get out of here and begin her day before this morning can grow any odder.
Bellamy beats her to it, though. He's the first dressed, the first through the flap of the tent, while she's struggling with her arms half-in her shirt and her chest is smarting from the rush of cold air he lets in on opening the door.
"That cat of yours wants his breakfast." Bellamy comments lightly.
She tries to huff with indignation once more. But it's harder to pull that off, in this moment, when she's still half way through pulling her shirt on. She feels foolish and undignified, somehow, and she doesn't like it. She doesn't like how Bellamy gets under her skin.
Apart from when she does like it, of course.
"He's not my cat." She argues, firm.
"And yet he's waiting for breakfast outside your tent. Later, Princess."
With that he is gone, striding off across the camp as Clarke finally manages to stumble out of her tent, still pulling her shirt down to her hips.
…...
He's there again that night.
They're both there that night, in fact – Bellamy and the cat, loitering outside her tent. And they seem to be getting to know each other, Bellamy scratching the cat softly between the ears when Clarke stumbles, exhausted, towards her bed.
"What are you doing here?" She asks, tiredness and surprise making her abrupt.
"Feeding your cat. It looked like you were going to be home late."
She frowns. This is wrong on so many levels. Bellamy is no longer feeding the cat – if indeed he ever was. Now he's just straight-up fussing over it. And listening to him talking about her getting home late seems to imply that her domestic affairs are his business, she thinks.
Not to mention, it's really not her cat.
He continues smoothly, either misinterpreting her silence or oblivious to it. "Come on, Clarke. Let's get you to bed. You want a little stress relief before we try to get some sleep?"
"I'm fine." She bites out, somewhat defensive.
He chuckles. The infuriating man actually chuckles. And then he reaches out towards her, loops his fingers around her wrist.
Huh. He has big hands. Big and strong and safe.
"I'm taking you to bed, Princess. You're going to take your clothes off and lie still and let me take care of you."
Hmm. That does sound nice. She can rather understand why that cat was so enjoying being petted, she thinks.
…...
Scenes like that become disturbingly common, in the days and weeks that follow. Bellamy waiting at her tent, the cat waiting at her tent. Bellamy waiting with the cat, feeding it and petting it and all-round bonding with it.
Clarke doesn't make a fuss of it like that. It's not her cat.
OK, fine. She does pet it sometimes. She does scratch it behind the ears every now and then, because it purrs and rubs against her when she does that, and it's nice to be liked, you know? She's surrounded by critical teenagers every moment of every day. Stroking this stupid cat and being touched by Bellamy are the closest she ever comes to feeling like anyone is actually on her side.
But then one day, things change. One night, she reaches her tent to find not Bellamy and a cat waiting for her outside, but Bellamy and a cat waiting for her inside.
"What's that thing doing in here?" She asks robustly.
Then she thinks better of it. She hopes Bellamy doesn't think she's trying to say that he's unwelcome. It's only the cat she's objecting to.
He shrugs. "It's starting to get cold out there in the evenings. I thought we could wait in here. Are you going to name him one of these days?"
"We don't know if the cat is a he." She says, because worrying about pronouns and gender in felines seems easier right now than admitting she doesn't want the creature to freeze to death.
"You could check. You're a doctor, aren't you?"
She frowns. She's done half a medical apprenticeship – that doesn't mean she's qualified to assess a cat's junk. And anyway, if there's one thing she knows about this kind of stuff from her training, it's that sexual organs don't make a human a he.
Maybe it's different in cats? If gender is a social construct and cats don't live in a human society, does it work the same?
And is she maybe focussing on the wrong point, here? Is she maybe obsessing over cat gender in order to distract herself from the fact that Bellamy is acting like both him and this cat belong in her life?
She scoops the cat up and is surprised to find that it doesn't object. It really has grown much friendlier, since Bellamy started making such a fuss of it. And she takes a look between its legs, finds what looks like a small cat-penis.
"The cat's a male."
"You should call him Cicero."
She splutters out a laugh. "I'm not calling a cat Cicero. Any better suggestions?"
"Horatius?" He suggests.
She laughs a little more. Nothing about this rumpled mess of tabby fur is in any way fitting for these pretentious Roman names Bellamy is coming up with.
"Felix?"
She considers that for a moment. It's not a terrible name for a cat. And she has a feeling that Bellamy planned it this way – that he started out with those silly suggestions so she would admit defeat more easily, now. In fact, she rather suspects that he wanted to call the cat Felix all along.
"Great. Felix it is."
There's a brief pause. Bellamy pets Felix. Felix seems utterly nonplussed by his new name – he's just happy to be warm and petted. Clarke rather knows the feeling. That's pretty much how she feels when Bellamy is touching her, too.
With that in mind, she edges towards him. She reaches up for a kiss, presses her lips softly to Bellamy's. And she thinks she knows the formula for this now, expects him to disregard the cat and start pressing her into the mattress below them.
But he does no such thing. He kisses her gently for a few minutes. And then he lies down, reaches an arm out towards her in invitation, and holds her close against his chest. Meanwhile Felix circles a few times, then curls up next to his shoulder.
They never do end up having sex that night. Clarke tries to convince herself it's because it would feel strange to get busy with a cat watching over them.
She tells herself that, because it feels safer than admitting that her relationship with Bellamy stretches far beyond sex, these days.
…...
Felix sticks around. Bellamy sticks around, too, and keeps encouraging the cat to do likewise – or perhaps they encourage each other.
Clarke quite likes it. She's ready to admit that to herself. Not just because she enjoys the company, but also because it gives her and Bellamy something to bicker about. It's easier to pretend she's not falling for him, when she's criticising him for encouraging the cat to make himself at home in her tent.
"Look at all the mud he's brought in." She gesticulates, annoyed.
Bellamy shrugs. "We live in a forest, Princess. It gets muddy. Not a lot of point blaming Felix for that."
"But he's trodden it all in here."
"Some of it was me." Bellamy argues, defensive.
Clarke frowns. She's pretty sure those look like cat prints not boot prints, actually. And besides which, she just doesn't understand this strange alliance Bellamy and Felix seem intent on forming. It's like they're ganging up on her – but affectionately.
Huh. Maybe that's just called having a family.
"I just wish he wouldn't." She concludes, frustrated – but ready to admit to herself and implicitly to Bellamy that her frustration is more to do with the teenagers outside than a few muddy cat prints.
"I know." Bellamy offers, soothing, as he pecks her lightly on the cheek. "You're right. It's better when he brings pigeons in – at least we can put those in the stewpot. But a little mud isn't going to hurt anyone, is it?"
She sighs, admits defeat with a nod. She relaxes a little into his arms, notes that he still seems to be pressing occasional kisses to her cheeks.
She turns into the kiss, presents him with her lips instead. She knows what they both need tonight – the same thing they always need from each other, more or less. So she kisses Bellamy eagerly for a few moments, does her best to ignore the cat winding around her ankles.
Felix still can't take a hint. It's been weeks, now, and he's still set on hanging around where he's not wanted.
It seems Bellamy can read her mind, though. He's bending down to scoop up the cat and carry it cheerfully towards the door of the tent.
"Do you think you could give us a little alone time, silly boy? Mummy and Daddy have plans."
She flushes hotly. She knows she's not supposed to react like that. She knows she's supposed to laugh – laughter would be more fitting for this lighthearted casual relationship they share. But there's something about hearing those words fall from his tongue that has her treacherous heart beating faster, has her wishing this was long term and rather more meaningful.
She's being foolish. It was just a joke with a cat. There's no reason for her to be reflecting on what pretty babies Bellamy would make, or what a great father he would be. Clearly she's just got carried away from watching him be so kind to the younger kids around the camp.
She distracts herself by starting to undress. And that's a practical solution, too, because while she has her shirt over her head Bellamy can't see her flushing cheeks, and the cold rush of air from him opening the tent to put the cat out will cool her warm chest.
It's all good. The moment passes. She continues to undress, and Bellamy kicks his boots off.
"Sorry about that. Thought you might not want an audience." He jokes lightly.
"It's only a cat." She shrugs.
"Yeah, but you don't like him."
"He's growing on me." She concedes. He's growing on her almost as much as Bellamy has grown on her.
Bellamy snorts and finishes undressing, then turns to her with a smirk.
"You going to lie down on your back for me?"
She nods, eager, and does as he asks. She knows the formula. That bit of kissing and chat about the cat was what passes for foreplay round here, and now they will screw quickly. In just a few minutes they'll both be deliciously tired and marginally less stressed. That's how this works.
Only that's not how this works, today.
Sure, Bellamy hovers over her shoulders, gets straight on with pushing his cock inside of her. But he doesn't build the pace up straight away, doesn't drive into her like a man possessed. It still has all the usual features she recognises from their hookups – his fingernails digging into her waist, his utterly dominant position on top of her and telling her what he needs from her. But there's a new hesitation she's not used to – something that feels a lot like savouring the moment.
"This is nice." She offers cautiously. She knows it sounds inane, but she's not sure what else to say.
He huffs out a laugh, breath already growing short. "Yeah. Though we could take our time for a change."
"Mhmm."
He stops moving. He frowns down at her, visibly alarmed. "That's it? Nice and mhmm? Aren't you going to argue with me?"
She shakes her head, palms at his butt in a futile effort to get him moving again. Damn him and his insane strength – he's not budging at all.
"You know I like it when you boss me around in bed." She concedes, forcing herself to look him right in the eyes.
He smirks broadly. "Thought so. I mean, I noticed. But thanks for actually saying it, Princess."
She groans a little. "OK. I've said it. Now get moving."
He grins down at her. "You know, I don't think I will. I'm the boss, remember?"
"Bellamy, please." She knows she sounds like a whiny brat, but she doesn't much care in this moment. Apart from anything else, she has a feeling he likes it. She can see his eyes light up when she begs for it.
"I don't think I heard you." He teases.
She laughs. She can't help it. She wants to play the game, but she also has to acknowledge that it's at least a little ridiculous they're having this lengthy conversation with his cock literally inside of her.
Shaking her head, she gathers her composure. She keeps her hands cupped around as much of his butt cheeks as she can reach, leans up to whisper in his ear.
"I need you to fuck me, Bellamy. Please. I need you."
They both know she's teasing. But all the same she feels the breath rush out of him, hears him give a light groan. And then he's moving at last, rocking against her, nails still pricking at her waist and lips working their way down the soft skin of her neck.
It's good. It's so good. It's even better for the waiting and the teasing and for that dramatic pause.
She makes a little incoherent mewling sound. She seems to remember she was planning to say something like yes or more or right there, but apparently words are beyond her, in this moment.
Bellamy, on the other hand, is having no such trouble.
"So good, Clarke. Princess. You feel so good. And just look at you lying there. Being so good for me, Clarke."
She swallows with difficulty. She's used to his occasional words of praise, used to the way they make her insides grow hot. But that was a lot, and she doesn't know how to process it.
He must sense her reaction. That must be why he keeps going.
"Yeah. God, Clarke. You feel perfect."
She remembers being confused back at the beginning of this arrangement between them. She remembers thinking that all he must see in her was a warm and willing body, and that she must be no better than any other warm and willing body. After all, pretty much all he ever requires of her is that she lies still and takes it.
But if he's telling her she's perfect, surely there must be more going on than that?
"So good, Princess. So good. You gonna come for me?"
She nods against his neck. She is going to come, and soon. She can feel it growing ever closer, now, and wonders whether maybe she just needed him to tell her it was OK.
"That's it, Clarke. You're OK. I've got you."
She falls apart, then. She sighs a long sigh, feels him holding her tight. I've got you, he said, and he was right.
The timing isn't quite perfect, today. They're only human, for all that the kids seem to expect them to be superhuman at times. Clarke can feel that she's done for the day, thoroughly satiated, but Bellamy is still a handful of seconds away, as far as she can tell.
She takes a risk. She gathers her courage. She reminds herself that she's not just any warm and willing body – she's perfect.
"I've got you too." She tells him softly.
That's the moment that tips him over the edge. She can hear it – the sudden change in his breathing, the last frantic strokes as he falls apart.
And then he collapses on top of her and simply lies there, breathing heavily.
"Bossy enough for you?" He asks lightly.
She grins into his neck. "Yeah." She takes a deep breath. "When you – you said I feel perfect. What does that mean? Aren't all vaginas pretty much the same?"
He laughs, rolls off her and takes her into his side for a cuddle. "Such a Clarke question, Princess. I'm not talking about some medical definition."
"What are you talking about?" She asks, because she thinks she needs to know. She has a feeling it will help her to figure out exactly what's happening here.
"I guess there is a little difference in physical feeling. But mostly I'm talking about you being you."
Oh. Well. That happened.
"I'm pleased you're you, too." She offers, inadequate but heartfelt. For someone who's not exactly fluent in talking about their emotions, she thinks she's doing OK.
He sighs a little – a relaxed sound, not a resigned one. And then he kisses her softly on the cheek.
"Want me to go let the cat in?" He asks.
"Yeah." Clarke agrees, and to her surprise she finds that she means it.
…...
It keeps happening. Bellamy keeps screwing her slowly and telling her she feels perfect. And he keeps making himself at home in her tent, and inviting Felix in too. Time and again Clarke comes home to find the two of them playing together, a smile spreading across her face quite of its own volition at the sight.
That's silly. It's her friend with benefits playing with a stray cat. There's no reason for her to feel quite so thoroughly warm and domestic about the whole thing. It's not like they're starting a family or anything.
The two of them are there tonight. Clarke wonders how it is that Bellamy is so consistently here before her, these days. He must be making that a real priority if he manages it in the face of having so much to do.
It's a far cry from shoving his tongue down her throat near the fire pit and taking her back to his tent.
"Why are you always here?" She asks him tonight. The question is a brusque one, but she keeps her tone soft.
He throws her an odd look. "Why do you think I'm here?"
OK. Yes. Stupid question – he's here to get laid.
"No, I mean – why here? We used to use your tent all the time back in the beginning."
"Changed my mind when I met Felix here. You must know I'm here for his company rather than yours." He teases lightly.
It's a lie, and they both know it's a lie. She sits cross-legged on the bedroll beside him and tries again.
"Bellamy, really – why do we always sleep here now?"
He swallows, eyes averted. "Because I like spending the night. And I know that if we were at my place you'd sneak out in the night."
She argues back on instinct. Bickering is what they do best – apart from having sex, perhaps. "I wouldn't -"
"You would." He insists. "I know you better than that, Clarke. I know you run from your feelings and that's fine, that's just where you're at right now. But I – I like to share a bed with you. So this seems simplest."
She leans into his side, feels him wrap an arm around her shoulder. Casual hugging like this isn't really something they do, but then again, neither are major emotional confessions. She can't quite believe what he's just said, about wanting to share a bed through the night with her.
More than anything, she can't believe the way his voice shook as he said it.
He's got emotional baggage. She knows that. She's been listening in on his nightmares for weeks. But him implying that he needs her has still caught her by surprise.
She has a go at meeting him half way. He's right – she does tend to run. There's a reason she took her wristband off on finding out about her mother's betrayal, a reason she believed Wells betrayed her rather than having it out with him. She thrives on being confrontational with Bellamy about the everyday running of the camp, but she hates to face confrontation about anything that actually matters.
"If you want to spend the night at yours sometimes I promise I'll stay." She offers lightly.
He stiffens, evidently surprised. She hears him take a couple of steadying breaths, wonders what his response will be.
"We can't do that. Who would feed Felix?"
She laughs. She knows she's supposed to. She may be the runner out of the two of them, but she's never met anyone quite like Bellamy when it comes to putting on a brave face and making a poor attempt at humour.
…...
The morning she wakes up to find that she's cuddling both Bellamy and the cat is the morning she knows she's really in trouble.
Or rather, that's her first instinct. Her first instinct is to panic and flee, because this looks a lot like domestic bliss and that scares her. She doesn't deserve domestic bliss, she's pretty sure. Not since getting her father and Wells killed.
But then she forces herself to think about it. She's always been proud of her capacity for rational problem solving, so she needs to try that now. She thinks about Bellamy spending every night in her tent, holding her close, telling her he wishes she wouldn't run. She thinks of the way their arguments have softened to friendly bickering, of the way he digs his nails into her waist just the way he knows she likes and assures her she's perfect all the damn time.
She's not in trouble at all – quite the opposite, in fact. That's her well thought-out conclusion.
She shifts a little, and Felix objects. He hops onto Bellamy's bare chest instead and curls up there. Clarke giggles to herself a little – she doesn't blame the cat for hanging out there, because she knows from personal experience that Bellamy has a very comfortable chest. She just doesn't want her foolish pet to start interfering in their sex life.
Bellamy hears her chuckle, cracks his eyes open and peers across at her.
"What is it?" He asks softly.
"My cat really likes you."
He snorts. "The cat really likes me, huh?"
"He does." She insists, defensive, because she hasn't missed his implication, there.
"Clarke, if you're trying to tell me you want to date me, you can just come out and say it." He teases – or rather, she knows he's making a show of teasing because he's nervous.
"I'm just saying he likes you way more than he likes me. Which is unfair because I started feeding him first. And – and yes." She swallows. "I want to date you."
She hears Bellamy let out a relieved breath, watches him roll onto his side and face her fully. He displaces Felix by moving, of course, but neither of them seem to care.
"Great. Shall we go watch a movie? Have a candlelit dinner?" Bellamy asks brightly.
Clarke laughs. "You want to do the water run with me this morning?"
"Romantic, Princess." He teases.
She laughs, pretends to reconsider. "You want to do the water run and then fuck me up against a tree?"
"Better." He agrees, leaning in for a kiss.
They kiss for a long time, and it's the strangest thing, because it doesn't really go anywhere. Clarke isn't used to them sharing lengthy kisses that don't end in sex, but she thinks she rather likes it. There's something warm and companionable about it – just the kind of thing that feels right, now they're dating and all. She knows that dating in an apocalyptic hellscape is a stupid concept, but she honestly doesn't care. As long as she gets soft kisses like this every morning, she's content.
They're interrupted by Felix mewing loudly, because of course they are.
"Sounds like our cat wants his breakfast." Bellamy grumbles lightly.
"Our cat?" Clarke echoes, grinning.
"You heard me."
Yes. Yes, she did hear him, and she thinks no grumble has ever sounded sweeter. This may not be the future she dreamed of – it's hardly the picture perfect household she would have had on the Ark, had all things gone to plan. But as battered tents on a dangerous planet go, she thinks they're doing OK.
No, it's better than that – she thinks she got pretty damn lucky.
a/n Thanks for reading!