prompt: Clarke being territorial
"This is ridiculous."
"This is art."
And, yeah, that's her go-to reply these days, and he can't even argue because — yeah, it is art, but fuck if his body isn't a damn canvas and — and it tickles, for fuck's sake, as she presses her brush to his body, smears of red and blue and green.
Let it be known that Bellamy Blake isn't a boyfriend.
He's a damn guinea pig.
Yeah, yeah body painting is cute, and yeah she has clever ideas and he knows she'll ace her finals and all. It doesn't make it any easier for him to stand still while she works on his skin, though.
Okay, maybe he dozes off, standing in the middle of her room. So what?
That's basically how he misses the feeling of the permanent marker against his ribs. When he looks at himself in the mirror, once the shooting is done, the harm is done, and she has that little shit-eating grin of hers as she looks at him, arms folded on her chest and eyebrow raised.
"Fair enough," he says in a laugh, and pounces on her — she screams and struggles all she wants, but the harm is done too and soon she's covered in paint from head to toes.
(He shows up to her next class the following day, because he needs the money alright. The girls are still snickering to themselves, but they kind of just stop when he gets rid of the bathrobe. The black letters still on display no matter how hard he tried to scrub them away the previous evening.
Property of Clarke Griffin.
And Clarke, damn Clarke looks so proud and magnificent, even with red high on her cheeks. He has to remember so damn hard he's naked in the middle of a room full of students because. Well.)