Bellarke Oneshots!

Her Muse: The Artist (part 1)

She admires the curve of his back, the grace with which he moves, and the ease he carries himself with as he floats around the bar as if he owned the place. Unfortunately, he didn't or else it wouldn't have taken Clarke so long to figure out when he would be here, when his shifts were. The effort was worth the result, and Clarke spent many a night sitting in her favorite spot in the bar, a booth, near the back. She could see the bar just fine, but she wasn't in any danger of being noticed by the object of her attention.

Today he wore a plain white button down, and had a black towel slung haphazardly across his right shoulder. Clarke admired the contrast, her fingers itching to draw the scene. But Clarke wouldn't be caught dead drawing him in the middle of the bar, even if there was a slim chance of him--or anyone --noticing her in the back. She tucks the image into the back of her head, promising herself she'll do a sketch later.

He was one of her favorite subjects. His hands, his face, his back...anything. He was intriguing for reasons Clarke couldn't begin to understand. His face always held an air of mystery, as if there was some sort of mental wall repressing his emotions from being shown on his face. But his eyes, oh, his eyes. No matter how steely he could make his face, or look impassive, his eyes were always bright. Clarke had always had a thing for brown eyes, but this was different. He wasn't just aesthetic, his eyes captivated her. Deep brown that seemed to be endless. She knew it was dumb, and cliché, but she could get lost in those eyes.

When she gets home that night, her hands immediately reach for her sketchbook. She drew him, again, and she realized that drawing him was soothing. It felt right, it felt natural. Rough charcoal strokes created his back, smooth, small strokes for his face. He was rough on the outside, maybe, but when you looked closer, he was beautiful.

Clarke didn't use that word about a subject lightly. Artists always critique everything, even if it's their best friend. There's always some flaw, something off. He wasn't perfect, by any means, but he was beautiful.

And those freckles.

If Clarke had ever found a muse before, it was completely diminished in the presence of him.

She knew this wasn't healthy, she knew it was a bit odd. She tried to convince herself that it was merely a phase, just a subject she would soon get over.

If only she knew.

Months passed, and Clarke still would find herself at that little hole in the wall bar every week. It was a safe haven, almost, because she could be in his presence without disturbing the scene. But it began to get harder and harder not to approach him, and one day, Clarke gave into the temptation.

She abandons her booth in the back and slips into one of the barstools, a few people down from where he was serving. It was getting late, and he was the only one left behind the bar. She was one of the few people left in the bar.

Clarke sighs. It's now or never.

As if on cue, he turns to her and gives her a smile that is the first smile she has seen him give all night that looks at least a bit genuine. "I'll be with you in just a second."

As he turns, Clarke frowns down at her clothes. Not thinking she would approach him tonight, or ever, she's still clad in some paint splattered jeans and a plaid shirt. But before she could further critique her poor wardrobe choices for the day he has turned back around, hands on the counter, leaning in towards her.

"What can I get you?" he offers easily, looking at her with a half grin on his face.

"Um," Clarke taps her chin. "A screwdriver. Yeah, that sounds good."

He nods at her and turns back to the alcohol, and a bit of disappointment resides in the corner of Clarke's brain. She had imagined this so many ways, but never this.

"Decided to move spots today, huh?" He spares her a glance over his (well toned) shoulder.

"Uh," Clarke blinks. "Yeah? How did you..."

He offers her the drink, but this time, he doesn't turn away. "You're always there. What made you so brave today, princess?" Clarke has heard this nickname multiple times because of the social status she grew up with, but when he says it, she senses no malice in his words. It's a welcome change.

If he's going to be bold, so is she. Screw it.

"I wanted to learn your name."

"Oh?" he says with a smile. "Funny, I was thinking the same thing."

She looks at him with surprise and he leans farther forward. "See, I had convinced myself tonight would finally be the night, that I would go over to the corner booth and ask the girl with the paint smeared hands what her name was."

Her body betrays her as she proceeds to turn beet red. "I've always liked artists," he says , searching her eyes. He's close enough to her that she could count his freckles, which she is currently trying really, really hard not to do.

"Well then," Clarke says with a smile, "You're in luck."

He grins back at her, which provokes her to do something, ask something even more bold-

"Have you ever been drawn?"

He slowly shakes his head, the grin never leaving his face.

"Would you like to be?"

He slings the towel back over his shoulder, and sticks out his hand. (She loves his hands.) "You just found yourself a willing participant."

"I'm Clarke, by the way," she says, taking his hand, his large, tan hand, engulfing her small, pale one. Which, admittedly, does still have a bit of oil paint on it.

"Bellamy. I've been looking forward to meeting you, princess."