a/n Here's another smutty Saturday! This is set early S4. Huge thanks to Pris for the prompt and Stormkpr for betaing. Happy reading!
Bellamy has a good reason for being in Clarke's room.
Really, he does.
Raven sent him here to look through Clarke's notebooks and files, hunting down any information about the skills and professions of the residents of Arkadia. Clarke's not home, and Raven urgently needs to know whether there's anyone in camp with hitherto unknown engineering skills she can call on. So it is that Bellamy is searching her room for notes.
That means he has a good reason for looking through her things, too. He has a good reason for opening this notebook, and checking what it contains.
Does he have a good reason for continuing to flip through it, when he realises the front page is a sketch of his face? Not so much.
And after that, when the next page is his face, too, and the following page is a sketch of a hand that looks like it might be his, and then there's a drawing of him in profile?
Yeah, he should probably put this down now.
Needless to say, he doesn't. It's not every day he finds himself sneaking into the bedroom of the close friend he has a huge crush on and learning that she keeps a sketchbook full of pictures of him. There's something rather gripping about that discovery, something that has him turning page after page and taking in every single image. Why would she be drawing him? Does that mean something? Does she keep notebooks of all her friends?
Does she maybe have something of a crush on him, too?
He's about a third of the way in when the sketches start to become truly interesting. They're not unobjectionable portraits of his face any more. They're close-ups of his lips, or detailed studies of the way his bicep emerges from the sleeve of his shirt.
There's his bare chest, every last muscle outlined perfectly, as he hefts a log over his shoulders in the course of helping out with building work around camp.
Yeah, he definitely can't put this down now.
It gets worse – or better, depending on your definition. Yeah, in Bellamy's opinion it gets better. Because there, on the next page, is a sketch which very clearly depicts Clarke sucking his cock. However hard he tries, he just cannot think of a different interpretation of it. That's definitely him – he can recognise his own face, thank you very much. He's stark naked, and a girl with Clarke's hairstyle and height and build is kneeling at his feet.
Well. That's an interesting development.
Mouth watering, pants growing tight, he turns the page. He likes this one even more – Clarke has her legs around his shoulders while he goes down on her. At least, he presumes that's him. His face is hidden, but he doesn't see why she'd suddenly change her theme now. And the hair looks right, he muses as he stares at it. She really is very good at capturing his hair.
What the hell is he supposed to do now?
He can't stand here and jerk off in her bedroom. It's simply not an option. But there's a bulge in his pants begging for release. Unsurprisingly, the idea that Clarke has been drawing explicit images of the two of them is playing dangerous games with his self control.
It's playing even more perilous games with his heart, though.
No. He can't think about that now. He cannot stand here and wonder whether she loves him, or only wants to screw him. The world is ending, and Arkadia needs repairing, and he needs to get Raven any useful notes he can find.
Quickly, heart thumping, he scours the rest of Clarke's room. Nothing useful. He needs to head back to Raven and report the bad news.
He turns and strides for the door. But he's only human, and a little in love, so admits defeat and grabs that precious sketchbook on his way past.
…...
He doesn't think about the drawings for the rest of the day. Really, he doesn't. It takes a lot of willpower, but he manages more or less to keep his mind on task as he takes the rover out to run errands with Miller.
He keeps his concentration mainly through sheer fear, if he's being honest. He's scared that if he allows himself to remember what he found in Clarke's room this morning he'll get hard right here in the driver's seat of the rover, and that could be tricky to explain.
It gets trickier when he arrives back to Arkadia. Clarke and Raven sit with him and Miller and Bryan at the supper table.
"Bellamy, hey. How was your day?" Clarke greets him cheerfully.
He tries not to smile at her too brightly. He's terrible at spending time away from her – he always worries that one of them won't come back. "It was great thanks. Yours?"
"Not bad." She shrugs. "Great, huh? Raven said you had some bad luck. I'm sorry I wasn't home to help you guys out."
"Oh, yeah. Well – you know me. Just trying to keep your spirits up." He says lightly. That is more or less his self-appointed mission, after all. That and protecting her health with his life.
She treats him to a warm smile. "Thanks, Bellamy. I don't know what I'd do without you."
He almost chokes on his supper. He can feel that sketchbook burning a hole in his jacket pocket. He really needs to get a grip on himself, before he tries to eat a meal with Clarke again.
He really needs to check out the rest of those sketches, before he tries to eat a meal with Clarke again.
No. No, that's a dangerous thought. He refocuses on his beans, and on Clarke's smile, and tries to keep up with Miller's conversation.
…...
Bellamy can't quite decide what to do first, when he gets back to the privacy of his room that night. He's not sure whether to start by checking out the rest of the drawings, or by dealing with the arousal that's been simmering ever since the moment he found that notebook.
Somehow, the idea that he might start by slipping the sketches back into Clarke's room and pretending he never saw them doesn't even feature on his list of options.
He decides to begin by looking at the drawings. He didn't get a chance to check them out properly earlier, he was in such a flustered rush to get out of there. Now he has plenty of time and the security of his own room, he feels much more comfortable. In fact, he finds that even the non-explicit images are getting him turned on. There's nothing inherently sexual about a sketch of his face, but the fact that Clarke likes his face enough to have drawn it dozens of times is probably the hottest thing that's ever happened to him.
OK, the hottest thing that had ever happened to him until he saw the rest of this sketchbook.
He admits defeat scarcely ten pages in, unbuckles his belt and tugs his clothes out of the way. He spits in his palm, curls his hand around his hard cock.
And then he closes his eyes, and starts to rub. He doesn't want to look at these pictures while he does this – he's still on the sketches of his face. And he doesn't want to think about his own face while he jerks off. No, he'd far rather keep his eyes shut and imagine Clarke thinking about his face. Imagine her staring at him, flushing, from the other side of the campfire. Imagine her gaze flitting away when he catches her looking. Imagine her studying him closely, obsessed with his face and his freckles and his hair.
He comes pretty soon. Of course he does. It's not every day you find out your crush has been drawing her own personal porn collection of the two of you.
Now that's dealt with, and once he has cleaned up a little, he's ready to look through the rest of the pictures. He's delighted – and aroused all over again – to find that they carry on in the same tone, after the point where he stopped looking this morning. There are sketches of them in pretty much every position he can think of, including a pretty memorable one where she's riding his face with her head thrown back in ecstasy.
Yeah. He suspects he's going to end up dreaming about that, tonight.
But on the next page is something he didn't expect at all. This isn't a drawing of any kind of sex act. This is a drawing of cuddling. He's lying on his back, a small smirk on his face. Clarke is lying across his chest, her leg slung across his hips, as if she's trying to get as close to him as possible, all at once.
As if she's a little in love with him, too.
He reaches for his cock again. It was bound to happen eventually, he figures. But this time he takes it slower, not chasing short-lived relief. This time he thinks of Clarke holding him, of her arms fastened around him, of her soft breathing and reassuring warmth at his side.
This time he falls apart with her name on his lips, and a little dampness on his cheeks that can only be errant tears.
…...
He feels terrible in the morning.
Finding the sketchbook didn't seem like anything to be ashamed of, last night. He had himself convinced that if Clarke had drawn those pictures then she must feel something for him, and wouldn't mind him joining in the fun in a manner of speaking.
But now he feels like he violated her privacy. He took one of her possessions, and a pretty damn personal one at that. And even if she does feel something for him, he's betting this wasn't how she wanted him to find out.
He figures all he can do is make the best of it. And he should probably find a way to get that sketchbook back to her.
…...
He doesn't sneak the drawings back into her room on that first day. He doesn't manage it the next day, either, nor the one that follows. Before he knows it a week has passed, and the sketchbook is still taunting him from his bedside table.
He's not sure why he hasn't done it. Maybe he just hasn't got round to it, what with the world ending. Maybe he's scared of her catching him, or finding out, or having to explain himself. Maybe he doesn't want to give it back, and has got a little attached to it.
OK, it's probably that last one. Based on the way he finds himself looking at the drawings whenever he has a moment, jerking off to the thought of them every night, it seems like the obvious explanation.
But he does mean to give it back sooner or later. Really, he does.
…...
Bellamy thinks nothing of it when Clarke knocks on his door early one morning. He simply rolls out of bed, still half asleep, and answers the door in his boxers.
Then he sees the way she's staring at him, and realises he should maybe have paused to grab clothes.
"What did you need?" He prompts her.
She tears her eyes away from him, gaze darting around the room behind him. "Oh. Yeah. Sargent Miller isn't feeling too good and we need someone to take the patrol out to sector four. And I know you're supposed to be on a late shift today but we really need -"
"It's fine, Clarke. I'll go." He smiles a little. "What time do you need me?"
"Hangar bay in ten minutes." She tells him, biting her lip.
"Great. I'll be there."
"Thanks so much. I -" She breaks off abruptly, staring at something behind him.
He frowns. "Clarke? What is it?"
She's silent, face flushing bright red. He spins around, wondering what she's seen. Has he left a visible come stain on his sheets or something?
Oh, no. It's not that. Of course it's not that.
Her sketchbook is in pride of place on his bedside table.
"Clarke. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean -"
"I guess I know where that went now." She says, tone carefully level. "I thought I'd lost it. I was just waiting for someone to come up to me round camp and say they'd found it. I thought that was the most humiliating thing that could happen." She swallows loudly. "It turns out I was wrong."
"You don't need to be embarrassed." He assures her quickly. "It's me who should be embarrassed for holding onto it like a creep. I should have – I'm sorry. I didn't mean -"
"Why did you hold onto it?" She asks, frowning.
He gapes at her. "Why do you think I held onto it?" He bites back, a challenge.
She shrugs stiffly. "If you wanted to embarrass me with it you'd have done it by now."
He takes a deep breath. He looks at her, hard – this is Clarke Griffin, the woman he's slightly obsessed with, standing in front of his bedroom door and blushing bright red because she's been caught drawing dirty thoughts about him.
He summons his courage, and takes a risk. "I've been holding onto it because I find it really hot, Clarke." Her eyes dart up to his at that, so he swallows and tries to keep going. "It's – yeah. Sorry. But I can't stop thinking about you doing what you -"
She cuts him off with a kiss, hard and fast. He staggers back a little in shock, but then his arms are closing around her and he's kissing her back eagerly. He can't believe this is real. Has everything really turned out so well? Is she really as desperate for this as he is? Is she really kissing him like she might love him, too?
She's not just kissing him, either. She's running her hands over his bare shoulders and pressing herself up against his chest. Without allowing himself to overthink it, he starts to walk them back towards his bed.
But then she pulls away, panting.
"You need to be in the hangar bay in five minutes." She reminds him.
To say he's disappointed would be an understatement. It's not just that he's incredibly turned on right now and wants to take this further. He's also worried about losing the moment. The thing about Clarke is that she's a rather sensible and controlled woman – he's not sure she's going to be in the mood for spontaneously kissing him senseless ever again. It's taken them six months to get this far, after all.
But he'd really like to learn how to make her lose control more often.
"We could pick this up again later." She tells the floor by her left foot. "If you want to."
He swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, I really want to. If you do too."
"I'd like that."
"Great."
There's a brief pause. Time that he cannot afford to spare ticks away from him. He needs to put some clothes on, but Clarke's standing right there and they just kissed and they're going to pick this up later and it's all a bit much for him, really.
She breaks the spell. "I'll get your late shift cancelled. Catch you at supper? And then – maybe you could bring that sketchbook over to mine?"
He grins. "Yeah. Sounds like a plan."
She edges towards the threshold, visibly reluctant to leave but determined to do her duty as ever.
He pulls her in for one last peck on the lips, and then he lets her go.
…...
He does a pretty good job of leading the team around sector four, considering the circumstances. He manages to keep his eyes on the road, manages to make coherent conversation for the most part, manages to keep the bulge in his pants to a discreet level.
And beneath all that, his mind is working at a mile a minute as he tries to decide what to do about Clarke.
He's pretty experienced in the bedroom – or at least in the tents at the dropship camp. And he's got a whole library of images taken from Clarke's imagination to choose from, too. So it is that he finds himself planning out something of a seduction.
…...
Meeting Clarke for supper is quite an experience. Bellamy isn't entirely sure where they stand – whether they're together now, or just hooking up later. And he has absolutely no idea how she would feel about their friends getting wind of what's going on. So it is that he tries to act normally, when she waves him over from the far side of the dining room. He takes his tray, and places it opposite her, with a smile that is warm but unexceptional, he thinks.
But then she stands up out of her chair and leans over the table to kiss him full on the lips, so that's an interesting development.
"Did I miss something?" Monty asks, in a tone that makes it very clear that he knows he missed something and has a good idea of what it is.
"It's pretty new." Bellamy says, with a shrug, as if this whole kissing-at-the-supper-table thing is a complete non-event.
To be clear, his heart is pounding and he's about to combust from sheer joy.
"And yet we all saw it coming months ago." Miller mutters under his breath.
"How about we change the subject?" Clarke asks, failing to hide her smile. Bellamy's pretty proud of that – she's had precious little to smile about since they came to the ground, and he rather likes the thought that she judges him worth being so happy over.
He smiles right back at her, because that seems like a good response. "Supper's good today." He offers, by way of conversation starter.
Miller snorts. "It's the same crap as always, Bellamy. You're just in love."
…...
They make it through supper with much teasing but no major drama. It makes a nice change, really, to go a couple of hours without any major drama, now he comes to think about it. And then he takes Clarke's hand on the way out of the supper hall, because he's a smooth guy who's confident around women, and all.
He's less confident where Clarke is concerned, it turns out.
"Are you going to go fetch the sketchbook?" Clarke asks, where the hallways to their respective rooms diverge.
"We could just both go to mine." He suggests.
She shakes her head firmly. "Not an option. Didn't you notice all the drawings were set in my bed?" She whispers into his ear.
He rises to her challenge. "Then we've got a problem." He murmurs back to her. "Because I've spent this whole time planning out what we're going to do in my bed."
She flushes a little, grinning. "Great. You win. Your place is closer." She announces, dragging him down the hallway by his hand.
He's more than willing to agree with that, and they walk side by side for a few moments. He likes wandering around hallways holding hands with Clarke, but he suspects he's going to like making love to her even more.
All in all, this is shaping up to be a pretty great day.
His only concern is the time that has passed since this morning. What if they can't quite recapture the mood? What if she's spent the intervening hours building up her expectations of him, and she's destined to be disappointed by the reality? What if he can't remember how to be the smooth confident guy he wants to be for her?
Based on the way this evening is already going, he certainly doesn't think he can count on it.
They arrive at his room, and step through the door with hands still joined. He kicks it closed behind them, then turns to look at Clarke.
And then he pauses, wondering what happens next.
"How does this work?" She murmurs, asking the question he's thinking.
"I don't know." He admits honestly. "It seemed like we were doing alright this morning. And at supper. This doesn't have to be awkward, OK? This is just two good friends learning how to have good sex."
"Is that all we are? Just two good friends?" She asks, sharp.
He swallows. "I hope not."
"Good." She gives a decisive nod. "Casual sex is great and all. But I've spent the whole day worrying whether I think there's more between us than you do. I'm sorry if I was a bit much at supper."
He kisses her in reassurance. He figures that's allowed now. "It was perfect." He assures her. "Best supper of my life. I – I like you a lot." He says, then curses himself for how inane that sounded.
Really, so much for smooth and confident. How hard can it be to tell his best friend who wants to have non-casual sex with him and kiss him at supper that he's in love with her?
Clarke doesn't seem to mind his ineptitude, though. She steps up and kisses him soundly, tangling her fingers into his hair.
Finally. He knows what he's doing, here. Sex is much safer and more familiar to him than talking about love.
He kisses her back hungrily, urging her backwards towards the bed. He's determined to get this right, determined to earn other chances to make love to her again in the future. But he also wants to enjoy this moment as much as he possibly can. He hovers above her, kissing deeply, even allowing himself to press into her with his hips. He's hard for her, and he wants her to feel it. He wants her to understand how much she turns him on.
"You don't want to stop and review my ideas first?" She teases, as he pulls away from her lips to kiss down her neck.
"I've got some ideas of my own." He tells her smartly.
She kisses him for that, messy and eager. "Show me." She demands.
Well, then. He's not going to turn down an invitation like that.
He undresses her first, flinging her shirt into some distant corner, unhooking her bra, dragging her trousers and underwear down her legs. He encounters her boots and wonders whether he could have done this in a different order, but he's too horny and impatient to care. He fights with her laces for a couple of seconds and then discards the whole lot, a tangle of clothes and shoes and socks.
"You alright?" He checks in with her, smirking a little.
"Great." She confirms, running her foot along the curve of his cheek.
He swallows painfully. He never thought he was into feet until now, but it turns out that having her trace lines down his face with her delicate toes is kind of a turn-on. That shouldn't come as a surprise to him, of course. This is Clarke – pretty much everything she does is a turn-on.
He catches her foot in his hands, presses one kiss to her arch. And then he sets her leg back down on the bed, and starts kissing his way along her thighs.
"I want to use my mouth for your first. That OK?" He asks between kisses.
"More than OK." She confirms, reaching down to thread her fingers through his hair.
Yeah, she always did seem to have a thing about his hair.
He sets to work without further hesitation. He's never been so happy and comfortable in his life as he is in this moment, he's pretty sure. He's here with Clarke, surrounded by the smell and taste of her, bringing her pleasure. And more than that, he feels pretty confident in his skills in this department. She's certainly having a good time, writhing against him and whimpering his name as he teases her closer to the edge. And so he finds that he is having a good time in turn, growing harder by the minute, occasionally giving into the temptation to grind against the mattress in search of a little friction.
When she comes, she does not come half-heartedly. She pulses against him, hard and for a long time, sighing his name like a prayer.
He thinks this might be the best idea they've ever had between the two of them. And that's saying something, given the fact they once saved the free will of the human race.
He pulls away and looks up the bed to where Clarke lies against his pillows, beautifully flushed, smiling a relaxed smile.
"You're pretty good at that." She says lightly.
Somehow he's almost embarrassed by her praise. "Thanks. You're pretty good at taking it."
She won't meet his eye as she continues to speak. "Can I return the favour? It's not something I've done very often but I want to try if you're up for it."
"Yeah. Sure. I know you'll do great." He swallows. "Could we maybe do it with me standing up and you kneeling?"
She smiles a knowing smile. "I wonder where you got that idea."
"Is that a yes?"
By way of answer, she slips from the bed and kneels. He takes the hint, sheds his clothes and stands before her, and watches in rapt fascination as she takes his cock into her mouth. She looks stunning, kneeling before him stark naked with her breasts bouncing as she bobs her head. He lets out an embarrassingly loud groan.
"So good, Princess. God, your mouth." Not his most coherent comment of all time, but it reflects the mood of the moment.
She reaches up to clasp his hand, which is not something anyone has ever tried to do whilst giving him a blowjob before. But he finds that he likes it – he likes it a lot. He likes holding onto her, likes the reminder that this is Clarke and they can keep each other grounded as well as sharing great sex.
For all her talk of inexperience, she's doing a very competent job of working his cock. Sure, Roma possibly had more technical expertise, but Clarke more than makes up for it in sheer passion.
It's not long before he senses that he had better call a halt.
"Stop there for me, Princess?" He pants, too besotted to bother feeling self-conscious about the nickname that just keeps slipping out. "I want to try something else before you make me come."
She smirks at him, a teasing little twist of her lips. "Or I finish this and we try that for round two."
He's tempted. He's sorely tempted. He's pretty sure he'll be able to get it up again within minutes of coming the first time. But he has this plan, knows how he wants to show Clarke a good time, and he'd like to stick to it.
"We can come back to this for round two if you want to." He suggests. "Or three or four."
"Yeah. OK."
She's still holding his hand, so he pulls her to her feet. "Come on. Back to the bed."
She flushes. "This is the only time you'll hear me say this, but I like it when you get bossy with me in bed."
He grins. He figured as much – there seemed to be more drawings where he was taking a leading role than the other way round, in as much as it's possible to learn anything about power dynamics from analysing a position.
"Then get on your hands and knees for me." He requests, but he shapes it with just a hint of a question. He wants to tread the line between taking the lead like she wants him to and ensuring she feels comfortable.
She obeys readily, positions herself on all fours before him. And he kneels behind her, eases inside of her. It's almost too easy – he finds himself even more aroused all over again by just how flatteringly wet she is.
"Feel OK, Princess?" He huffs, already struggling a bit to form actual sentences.
"Feels so good. Love the way you fill me up."
Wow. Clarke Griffin can talk dirty. That shouldn't be news, based on the filthy artwork he's seen, but it has him groaning all the same.
"Love having my cock inside you." He chokes out, figuring he may as well join her at her own game. He wonders about adding that he likes to be able to watch as he screws her, but he's not sure how to say that without reducing what they're doing here to a bit of mindless fucking. So he doesn't say it, because to him this is anything but that.
He can see and hear that Clarke's having a good time, but from what he can tell he thinks he might be closer. And he doesn't put much faith in his self-control, right now. So it is that he decides he ought to give her a helping hand, leaning forward to tease her clit with one hand, cupping a breast with the other. Her breasts are incredible – warm and soft and heavy, and it's like they were made for his hands. That's something that didn't really come across through her art, he finds himself thinking through the haze of arousal.
Then he stops thinking much about anything beyond Clarke's body and his breathing and their shared pleasure.
She doesn't fall apart with a sigh, this time. She falls apart crying his name, covering the hand that's on her breast with her own and squeezing it tight. He's incapable of doing anything other than following right behind her, thrusting against her one last time as he spills inside of her.
And then he just sort of flops forward, less than elegant, and holds her tight. He buries his face in the back of her neck, hugs her close. He ought to get off her sooner or later, but he really doesn't want to.
At last, he convinces himself to move. He pulls out, lies on his back on the bed and tugs her down onto his chest. She curls right into him, much like a certain sketch in a certain notebook, he observes. It's no wonder tonight has gone so well – they've both been planning it for months.
"That was incredible." Clarke breathes, with a hint of vulnerability.
"Agreed." He doesn't want to bring the mood down, but he figures there's something that he needs to say. "You know how the world is ending and all? I hope that at least we can spend whatever time we have left before then together."
"Definitely. We should have done this ages ago."
"Yeah. But better late than never."
She hums in agreement. "This feels so... frivolous, with Praimfaya coming. But – we're a couple now, right? I haven't completely misread this?"
He presses a kiss to her hair. "Yeah. There's something I think I need to tell you, Clarke. I was trying to tell you earlier but – but I'm not good at talking about love." He forces the word past his lips. "I guess I never thought I was allowed to fall in love. But – yeah. I love you."
She's silent for a moment, and he wonders if he's made a misjudgement. But he figures that it's hardly the end of the world if he has – Praimfaya is coming, whether Clarke loves him or not, and he'd rather she knows the truth. He can cope with being in a slightly lop-sided relationship if that's what it takes to have a relationship with Clarke at all.
But then it turns out there's a different explanation for her silence.
"I'm not good at saying it either, Bellamy. Everyone I love dies, and I don't want that to happen to you."
"I get that." He says calmly, hugging her even tighter. "It's OK, Clarke. Whether you feel it, or whether you can say it – I love you anyway. And I'm not going anywhere, I promise."
She doesn't point out that he can't promise not to die. That's not how life works on the ground. She just presses a kiss to his chest and keeps thoughtful silence for a few seconds longer.
"I – I do." She tells him at last. "Just in case the dozens of drawings of your face didn't give it away. I do feel that way about you." He feels her swallow, throat bobbing against his bare skin. "I do love you." She concludes, voice firm.
So that's that. That's more happiness than he deserves, more hope than he has a right to feel this close to the end of the world. That's a declaration of love, as well as a lot of depictions of lust.
And next time he finds himself in Clarke's bedroom, it sounds like he'll have one hell of a good reason for being there.
a/n Thanks for reading!