Bellarke One Shots Book 2

98) Blank Canvases

"Each leader was asked to give the name of someone they trust, usually their second." She shrugged. "But we've already made it clear we're a team, so they didn't bother asking us."

His eyes softened a little at that, and she smiled tentatively. But soon he was looking around their small hut again, picking up every detail. When he raised an expectant eyebrow, Clarke knew she was in trouble. "That still doesn't explain why they locked the door. Or gave us a bed."

Clarke winced and looked away. This was the part she'd been dreading. When she didn't respond for a full minute, Bellamy took a step closer. And another, and another, until she could practically feel the heat radiating off his body. She kept her gaze on the floor, distractedly wondering why he hadn't fixed the hole in the heel of his left boot yet.

"Clarke," Bellamy's voice was dangerously low. "What are you not telling me?"

With a small sigh, she dropped her face into her hands. "Technically, the painting is only part of the ritual. After that, the..., they usually... uh..." she flung a hand to the pile of sheets without opening her eyes. A fierce blush rose in her neck.

There was utter silence as he processed what she was saying. Then:

"You have got to be kidding me."

Bellamy sounded so scandalized that Clarke would have laughed if she wasn't so nervous.

"It's just another part of the tradition." Her voice came out too fast and and several octaves too high, but she rushed on desperately. "We can't offend them. Not after... Anyways, they gave us wine and cider, and I just figured we could drink and do the painting and-"

"Wait, wait, wait." Bellamy held up his hands, and now a familiar smirk spread across his face. She nearly took a step back. "You mean to tell me that Clarke Griffin was going to get me drunk so she could take advantage of me?"

"What!" She shrieked and shoved him, wide-eyed. "No! That's not- I didn't-"

His laughter cut through the air, the bright sound easily overtaking any reply she might have given. If she'd been able to speak at all - which, at the moment, she couldn't. Her blush rose in a deep, hot wave as Bellamy bent double in laughter, his eyes crinkled and hands braced on his knees. Clarke crossed her arms in front of her chest, affronted.

(Never mind that she loved making him laugh. Never mind that she was biting the inside of her cheek in a fruitless attempt not to smile.)

It took a full two minutes, but he finally managed to pull it together with a few deep breaths, though he was still chuckling. His gaze swept over her heated cheeks, and his smile widened.

"Princess, I think you planned this." He teased, reaching out to tweak her nose.

She slapped his hand away. "Did not," she replied petulantly. "What I was going to say was that I thought we could just do the painting and then go to sleep. It's not like they'd know the difference. The sheets will have paint all over them."

"Uh huh. Sure." Bellamy was still grinning hugely, and it was sending all sorts of things fluttering inside her. Clarke wanted - needed - to wipe the smile off his face.

So she marched over to the table, picked up the first bottle she saw, and took a large gulp. And then another. The liquid was sweet, with a hint of tartness - likely one of the Grounders' special fruit wines. A warm burn settled in her throat.

Without preamble, she stripped off her shirt.

"Clarke!"

She smirked a little to herself at the strangled note in Bellamy's voice before turning around and planting her hands on her hips. "What? Did you expect to paint over my clothes?"