Bellarke Oneshots!

kill the lights

"The paint's supposed to go where?" // Bellamy offers to help Clarke with an art project and everything goes downhill from there.

********************************************

"The paint's supposed to go where?"

Clarke huffed. "Bellamy, you said you'd help me out with this."

He put his hands on his hips, mimicking a motion often contrived by his sister. While this action could have been derived as a bit feminine, the muscles twitching in Bellamy's arms distracted her from even coming to that conclusion. "Clarke," he taunted in her same whiny tone, "You didn't say paint would be on me. And in unmentionable places, nonetheless."

She blew some hair out of her face, trying to distract from the growing blush forming on her cheekbones. "It's art," Clarke gestured vaguely. "You do the unthinkable. Press boundaries."

"This certainly is unthinkable," groaned Bellamy. "And what will O say?"

"We don't have to tell her."

He gave her the side eye. "We don't?"

She stepped closer, and hesitated as Bellamy stood nearly naked in front of her. All for the sake of art, of course, she reminded herself. If she acted uneasy and unsure, he would feel the same way. Putting away her doubts (and fantasies), Clarke reached out to touch his arm, making sure to look at his face-- and only his face. "We don't."

Seeming placated, Bellamy let his tense shoulders drop a bit. Clarke swore internally at the fact he wasn't bothered at all by the situation, but only what his sister would think-- and who she would tell.

"Anyway," Clarke soldiered on. "It's for a class project. It's not for a gallery or anything. No one needs to know."

"No one needs to know," he repeated slowly, as if taking it in himself.

She nodded curtly.

Bellamy sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "Alright, where do we begin?"

To be truthful, while Clarke had thought ahead about her project, having Bellamy in front of her, ready to be painted, was an entirely different reality. Tensions were higher, and although she was very sure of her skill, him watching her while she worked just made it worse.

She placed him in front of the white backdrop, on a chair. "You're gonna want to sit down," she chuckled. "This might take a while."

Bellamy rolled his eyes, but did as she said. "Sure thing, princess."

Clarke knelt in front of him, mixing her palette. "Princesses don't get art degrees." She didn't make eye contact, dropping her daze to her work.

"What do princesses do, then?"

"Princesses go to Ivy League schools and study pre-med."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Octavia did tell me you originally were going to be pre-med."

"I was."

"Why aren't you? Surely you'd make more money that way. Job security, the like."

Clarke stopped mixing. "There's more to life than money, you know?" At his disbelieving look, she soldiered on. "It was all I knew growing up. You know this. We were old money. But my mom never really loved my dad. We may have had more money than we ever needed, but it didn't buy a happy family," she smiled humorlessly. "It was miserable. When my mom said she wanted me to go pre-med, I thought, "Why not?" As you said yourself, job security.