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Chapter Text

“Bellamy, we can’t…” Clarke breathes, but she can’t quite put intention behind her words when Bellamy’s warm mouth is on her skin, trailing down her neck and making her shiver.

“We can’t what, princess?” he sinfully whispers against her throat. “Fuck in the coat closet at the mayor’s New Year’s Eve party?”

Clarke’s head falls back against the wall, exposing more of her to him as she moans. 

They are indeed in the coat closet at the mayor’s New Year’s Eve party in Arkadia.

***

She and Bellamy returned to their hometown ten days ago, after he finished his exams. At the beginning of the month, Clarke had told her mother they were coming home for Christmas, to which Abby had promptly replied that Clarke was expected to be at the mayor’s party with her on the night of the 31st. 

Clarke hadn’t wanted to attend, but she knew she must if she wanted to keep the weird but somewhat peaceful balance she had reached with her mother. Bellamy was already making plans for New Year’s Eve when she regretfully broke the news to him. 

She hated missing her boyfriend’s company because of her mother. But he had listened in silence, a calm expression adorning his features, while Clarke complained about facing an entire room full of bigoted rich white people. She told him that she would have preferred to do anything else with him, “even, like, stay home and watch the most boring movie you can think of.”

“You through?” Bellamy asked when she had finished with a frustrated sigh, a small grin curling his lips. Clarke pinched her eyebrows together and gave him a huffy nod. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you do this alone.”

She had stared at him in surprise: she wasn’t expecting him to suffer through an entire night with people he hated even more than she did, just to keep her company. But he had offered– no, he had told her he would go with her, no questions asked. 

She had thanked him with more than just words. 

When Clarke had told Abby (“I’m not asking, Mother”), the woman had relented with a disgruntled sound. Though, that could have been because she still didn’t know that the two of them were together. 

Clarke and Bellamy had decided to keep their romantic relationship in Polis, where they could live and enjoy it without anyone else’s input: not her mother’s, nor from the folks in their hometown, always ready to point fingers and discuss other people’s business with no small amount of malice. 

Clarke and Bellamy’s relationship was theirs, and they had chosen to guard their love, only sharing it with those who truly cared about them.

That decision resulted in a struggle of keeping their hands away from each other at the ongoing party, though. They hadn’t been touching, except for a chaste palm on the back or a hand curled around an arm. They had to restrain themselves from continuously looking at the other in their elegant attire with hungry eyes. Throughout the night, Clarke had felt her hands tremble, simply holding back from Bellamy.

All it took was a slip on his part during the first trial in keeping their amorous relations secret for the charade to fail miserably. Clarke was chatting with yet another couple of her mother’s friends when she made eye contact with Bellamy. 

He had promptly come to the rescue, gracefully interrupting the conversation by saying that someone was looking for her. He had leaned in to whisper it in her ear, just to make them look more convincing. 

Bellamy could have gotten away with a simple babble, but honestly? He was bored. Clarke was the only one keeping him sane in this wretched sea of opulence and hypocrisy; the couple had been holding her hostage for the past 15 minutes. When he had caught her meaningful gaze, he set the glass down and stood from their assigned dinner table, taking her in as he walked. 

Clarke was nothing like the people in the room, but gods, could she pull off the regal look. She was gorgeous in that gown. So fucking gorgeous, Bellamy thought as he took in the way the bodice of the dress enveloped her curves. 

So he had thrown caution to the wind and murmured against the shell of her ear just how much he wanted to tear her pretty gown apart and suck on her tits.

Clarke had managed to keep a straight face – much to Bellamy’s surprise and amusement – and excused herself from the old couple with a charming smile. She had then grabbed his wrist and steadily directed him towards the door of the ballroom.

From the outside, no one would have suspected a thing. Clarke’s mouth curled in a gentle arc, her pace slow and relaxed. But Bellamy felt her nails digging into his skin, saw the tension in her shoulders. 

Everything about the scene, the way Clarke composed herself and pretended as though she wasn’t dying to push him against the nearest wall and devour him, aroused him to the point that he had to concentrate hard to stop his blood verging south. 

Not five minutes later, the door of the wardrobe room slammed shut behind them.

***

Here they are now, with Clarke trying to find leverage on some solid surface while Bellamy runs his nose down her neck. But all she can touch is the heavy fabric of the coats around them, so she grabs his arm. The feeling of his taut muscles under his button down shirt makes her want to rip the thing open and press her tongue to his neck. 

Clarke doesn’t want to give in to her most sordid desires in a cramped space, where anyone could interrupt at any moment – they just came in here for a brief makeout session – but Bellamy makes it impossible to keep her mind straight, with his warm touch and tantalizing voice. That voice is a drug to her: all he has to do is talk in that low growl of his while they kiss, and Clarke becomes putty in his hands. 

He was absolutely thrilled the first time he found out.

***

It was back in November, the morning after he told her he loved her and they started their new, wonderful journey together.

They had made love the night before, and it had been sweet and slow. They had not rushed to explore each other’s bodies for the first time. Clarke had felt a bit nervous when they reached the bedroom– it was Bellamy, her lifelong best friend, but it was also Bellamy, her lifelong best friend.  As he had started to run his hands up and down her hips, like a potter working clay, delicately and passionately at the same time, his touch calmed her. She had teased him then, hoping to dissolve the tension still lingering around them.

“It’s not like you’ve never seen me in a bikini…” 

He looked at her, more serious than he had ever been, making her shudder. “Not the same.” 

Then Clarke had thrown herself at him, and they had fallen in bed in a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothes, following the rhythm that their hearts and bodies commanded.

The morning after had been a different story altogether. She had awoken with Bellamy kissing her shoulder, his fingers drawing patterns from her waist to her stomach, leisurely tracing the swell of her soft curves. She had smiled, remembering whose hands and mouth were making her body melt into the mattress, and turned round in his arms.

“Good morning,” she had said, voice hoarse with sleep. “I love you.” 

Clarke had decided, sometime between their first kiss and the moment he had looked at her naked body in reverential awe, that she would tell Bellamy she loved him every morning after waking up and every night before falling asleep.

He had kissed her then, and murmured against her lips, “I want to make love to you.” 

Her heart had swelled, her breath accelerating with anticipation. She had nodded, and a moment later she found herself on her back with Bellamy’s hard body pressed against her in the most luxurious way. She had sighed, brought her arms around his shoulders, opening her legs to accommodate his big frame. She was tiny compared to him– a fact that she not-so-secretly delighted in. 

Bellamy had started kissing her jaw slowly, then swooped down from her throat to her breastbone, making Clarke arch her body into his. He had smiled against her soft skin and, relishing their nudeness from the night before, had dived into her breasts and taken a nipple between his lips, causing her hands to tangle in his curls and her ankles to lock behind his lower back. 

“Bell…” Clarke’s eyes had rolled in the back of her head as his teeth raked against her body, tongue gently caressing her sensitive skin.

When his lips had left her chest to return to her neck, they were promptly replaced by his callous fingers as he kept fondling, twirling, tugging on her breasts, eliciting small sounds from Clarke.

“You like that, princess? My hands on you?” He had taken Clarke’s earlobe in his mouth, and her body was peppered in goosebumps. “You love having your tits played with?” His voice dropped lower and lower with every question.

Clarke’s hips had bucked and her legs tightened around him, allowing his hardness to come to rest with the throbbing peak at the apex of her thighs. Moaning loudly, Bellamy had leaned back slightly to look at her: big, blue eyes almost glazed over, lips parted; hands on him, tightly gripping his hair and skin, pulling him back towards her. 

He had groaned at the sight. “Fuck, babe. Look at you. So hot and pliant under me.”

Her only response had been a feeble whimper and a flutter of her eyelids. It had dawned on Bellamy in that moment: his voice had made that happen. Clarke was a mewling, liquid mess under him because of his dirty talk.

He had smirked then, smug, and proceeded to ravish her for the very first time, muttering sweet words such as “so good to me, babe” and “gonna take care of you” over and over again, until they were both sated and spent after hours of fucking, as if compensating for all the years they hadn’t spent in bed together.       

***

Ever since that day, Bellamy hasn’t had any qualms about wielding the power he has over her– much like he is now, making her lose all coherent thoughts with his stupid, sinful voice. 

Clarke hates him for it.   

“My… oh god… my mother is here,” she manages to say, when he starts stroking her lower back. 

Bellamy almost snarls.

***

Clarke knows he hates her mother. Not due to the things Abby used to say about him when he and her daughter were teenagers, nor how she treated him in the past (and sometimes still treats him now); all valid reasons, if you ask Clarke. 

Abby’s tone is condescending at best whenever the two of them engage in conversation– something they tend to avoid. She saves her haughtiest looks for him and not once, in all the years of his friendship with her daughter, has she invited him over to the house, asked Clarke how he’s doing, or even taken an interest in him in general, as someone close to her family. 

Bellamy has always chosen to be the better person though. He’s never replied to Abby in the same vicious way she talks down to him. He has always been kind and polite, focusing his attention exclusively on Clarke and leaving the older woman to bask in her own bitterness.

Hence, all of that is not what matters to him.

Bellamy hates Abby Griffin for what she did to Clarke.

Clarke and her mother have never quite seen eye to eye on most matters: the two women might share similar traits, but the manner in which they choose to act on them couldn’t be more different. Where Abby uses her logic and cold demeanor to bite, reproach and make people feel like they’re not good enough, Clarke uses her head to strive to become a better person and challenge herself, to encourage and support others and make them see that they can do whatever they put their mind to. 

Jake Griffin was more similar to Bellamy. He wore his heart on his sleeve and was never afraid to show his emotions. He was kind, compassionate, hard working. He laughed hard and lived life to its fullest. He loved his daughter like parents rarely do; he would have walked through fire for Clarke, without any hesitation. She was his greatest joy, and not a day passed without Jake reminding her of that truth in some way.

Bellamy still remembers him playing hide and seek with the two of them, watching documentaries on wildlife, baking cookies. On those days, Abby would come home and see the three of them and the typically pristine kitchen table all covered in flour. She would start reprimanding her husband, but Jake would merely take her into his arms and kiss her reproaches away, always with a smile. 

Despite Abby’s coldness, she did love Jake. He was the only one able to soften her hard edges. With her husband by her side, Abby Griffin wasn’t so bad– at least not to Clarke. Jake’s gentle heart was always able to stop her mother from giving into her worst traits.

Clarke was 13 years old when her father died, and then everything changed. The cheerful, happy, carefree kid Bellamy had known for years disappeared. Jake’s loss left an aching void in Clarke’s chest, and Bellamy wasn’t sure it would ever heal. 

But he was there for her, as well as a few other friends from school, who every couple days would show up at her place to check on her, see if she needed anything. 

Mostly, though, Clarke would stay locked in her room for hours, crying, screaming, losing sleep, and crying again. But she would also paint and draw, and sometimes she would let Bellamy take her on a silent walk, or she would let him stay in her room while she pretended to sleep, and he did homework for both of them.

After a few weeks, it had seemed as though she was slowly getting better: she smiled once or twice a day, started talking and going out more. That was the point when Abby ruined every ounce of progress her daughter had made. 

She had grieved Jake too, throwing herself into work so that she could stay at home as little as possible. Clarke hadn’t minded. She had said that everyone did have their own way of grieving, and her mom was allowed to take a few weeks for herself. 

“I have you,” she replied when Bellamy had asked if she felt lonely. 

But then Abby was home more, and suddenly everything that Clarke did wasn’t okay. She wasn’t studying enough, she was drawing too much, she ate too much, she didn’t take care of her appearance enough, she was always with that Blake boy... 

Bellamy hadn’t realized what was happening, not at first. When Clarke refused a second portion of their lunch, she would say her stomach was upset. When he showed her photos he thought she’d love to draw, and she replied with a simple “nice” instead of her excited “let me grab my sketchbook”, she’d then say she had to study. When she was done with homework and began reading her mom’s medical manuals, she’d say that it was only for fun, to look at something different for a change.

They were on the phone one day: Bellamy doing homework in his bedroom and Clarke drawing on the couch in her living room, both of them working in silence. She had been so focused on her art that she hadn’t heard Abby coming home. Clarke hadn’t had the time to tell her that Bellamy was on the other end before her mom began yelling at her: it had been a flowing river, waves of “If you want to make something out of your life you should stop playing the artist” and “You should go out and exercise more, instead of sitting on the couch every day and gaining weight” crushing over her. 

Bellamy was left speechless, incredulous to the abuse he was hearing. Clarke didn’t speak for a while either, only for a weak “I’m sorry. I’ll go to my room to study”. Before he could wrap his mind around what had transpired and say something to her, Bellamy heard a click, and the call had ended.

He texted her and he called, but in the following days, Clarke always changed the subject or asked him to just stop talking about it altogether, claiming that it wasn’t a big deal, that her mom was simply sad and sometimes said things which she didn’t mean. But Bellamy knew Abby Griffin didn’t say things she didn’t mean– and Clarke did too.

She was attempting to downplay what her own mother was doing to her, but Bellamy didn’t fault her for that. He knew firsthand what it meant to love a parent and try to make excuses for them when they don’t care enough, when their love is deficient to the point that their children wonder if they are actually loved. What broke Bellamy’s heart was that Abby was so cruel to start emotionally abusing her daughter right after Clarke’s father had died, and when she was just starting to heal.

That is the reason why Bellamy hates Abby Griffin. For what she had put Clarke through in her most vulnerable moment, when she was just starting high school and needed a loving and supporting mother. All she got instead was a cold, unfeeling, mean woman who did nothing but rip her dreams apart and tear away what made Clarke... Clarke. That wound has taken years to heal, and it still affects her to these days.

***

Clarke knows all too well how Bellamy feels towards her mother, she’s not surprised that whenever Abby comes up in a conversation, Bellamy grimaces, or worse. 

She is surprised by his physical response at the current moment, though.

If there is one thing about Bellamy which Clarke has always been fond of, since the very beginning of their friendship, it’s his gentleness. So she was left pleasantly fascinated when she found out that he can be very different in bed. She thrives whenever he puts aside his tenderness and just takes her; she finds his roughness with her irresistible, the way he still manages to make her feel like a goddess inebriating. His worshipping touches become like the ones of a priest kneeling in front of his altar, the whispers he offers to her like the prayers needed to reach the gates of Heaven. There’s nothing saintly in their sin, nothing gentle or innocent– and Clarke just loves it. 

And it seems like mentioning her mother when they’re about to initiate their ritual might just do the trick faster. 

Bellamy grips Clarke’s jaw and tilts her head to the side, giving him entry needed to suck on the soft spot where her neck greets her shoulder, and she mewls.  

“Your mother is in the ballroom making small talk with her pompous friends,” Bellamy growls. Clarke feels his teeth on her clavicle, the dress’s off-shoulder neckline easing his task. 

Had she bought this dress just so he could take it off? Probably. Actually– most definitely. 

She chose it with him in mind, perfectly aware that Bellamy would lose his mind the moment he saw her in this elegant midnight blue gown. She could picture his eyes going completely feral as she studied the lacy patterns decorating the upper half of her body and the slit revealing the creamy skin of her thigh in the changing room.

When Clarke had taken off her coat in the hall upon arriving at the hotel of the party’s venue, it took several seconds for Bellamy to close his mouth. The self-satisfied smirk she had thrown his way made his eyes flash with dark promises as his gaze lingered on her neck, completely exposed due to her fancy, self-styled updo, adorned only with a thin, simple necklace. 

It seems like he’s fulfilling those promises now. 

“Stop thinking about her, or else I’ll take you out there and fuck you on our dinner table.” 

Clarke’s breath hitches, and her hips instantly seek friction against Bellamy’s. He grunts and pushes her body against the wall. Clarke consoles herself with the fact that she’s not the only one affected tonight: Bellamy is maddeningly hard, and she wants him to just get on with it, all previous caution forgotten.

“Would you like that, babe?” His voice is a low rumble in her ear. “Fucking in front of all those people, letting them see how good you are to me?” He grips one of her thighs and sets her knee round his hip. “How well you take my cock?”

Clarke locks her arms around Bellamy’s neck, and he doesn’t see her eyes flickering shut as she hides her face under his chin. She grinds against him, and she can’t bring herself to feel shame. He made her like this, he knows how she gets when he talks to her like that. 

He’s obviously doing it on purpose, but at this point she can’t even hate him for it. Actually, the thought of getting fucked in public is making her wetter than ever. A surprising new development, but Clarke doesn’t really have the time to analyse it right now.

“Bellamy, please, just…” she whines against his collarbone. His scent is intoxicating.  

She manages to undo his tie and open the first few buttons of his shirt with sweaty fingers, before halting and gripping his shoulders when Bellamy’s hand finds her underwear. He starts tracing a maddening pattern with his index finger, never applying pressure but circling her clit through the lacy lingerie. 

“You’re so wet.” Bellamy’s voice is a deep, vibrating sound reverberating through his throat. Clarke can feel his hot breath on the side of her neck.

His free hand moves to her back, where he slowly unclasps the zip of her gown. The other one lingers on her pussy, two fingers grazing her folds over the lacy fabric for a moment longer before cupping her and stilling his movements. 

“I barely touched you and you’re drenched, princess.”

Clarke moans, trying to grind her hips down, when he suddenly takes his hands away from her body, placing them on the wall and caging her in. She blinks several times before the fog of her pleasure fades and reveals a familiar mouth in front of her, curling in a smirk.

“Bellamy,” she cries out. Clarke knows she’s too loud and anyone passing in the hallway could probably hear, but she couldn't care less right now. “What the fuck?”

“I’m doing what you asked, babe. You said we can’t, remember?” A dirty grin streaks over his face, half hidden by the dark shadow of his long curls.

No, Clarke doesn’t remember. She’s hardly aware of anything else except the ache between her thighs. She pulls Bellamy towards her, aided with the leg still around his hip, but he doesn’t budge. 

“We should go back to the party, I’m sure people are looking for you.” 

He’s actually smiling, the bastard. Clarke wants to wipe that stupid, self-satisfied expression from his face. 

“That’s what you wanted, right?”

In a remote corner of her mind, she is aware that they are, in fact, still within the coat closet, still in an undignified state of undress. If she concentrates, she can hear the music from outside the room, voices too. They’re so close. 

The coat closet is a small room down the hall opposite the main event space. Throughout the night, Clarke has seen plenty of guests going back and forth. She and Bellamy have been in here for… how long now? Fifteen minutes? Someone will wish to leave and retrieve their coat soon enough.

This is a bad idea.

“Take your hand off my hair and we’ll go back to the party, babe.” 

Clarke tightens her hold. 

“Just let me go, princess,” he whispers against her cheek, grinning like a devil. 

She decides right then and there that she’s going to get back at him.

“Fuck you,” she tells him, before claiming his mouth and feeling his teeth against her lips when he unfurls in an infuriating smile. 

He pulls back slightly just to say, “That’s what I thought.” 

Then he kisses her, and there’s nothing sweet or gentle in the way Bellamy dives into her. He grabs her other leg and brings it around him, hoisting Clarke up. Pressed hard against the wall, the rough surface scraping her bare shoulders, but she doesn’t care, not when Bellamy’s strong body makes her own burn up in flames. 

They undress each other, trying to pull away as little as possible, craving the other’s touch. Bellamy gathers the skirt and pulls it up, then lowers the bodice-like part of the dress, baring Clarke’s lace clad breasts until the beautiful gown is a mess of fabric around her waist. She hastily shoves his tie away and opens the rest of the buttons. The white shirt that had made Clarke salivate when she first saw him in his tuxedo joins the tie on the floor. 

Her hand wanders down his body, tracing the lines of his abdomen, and finally cups his hard length through his pants. Bellamy groans and tightens his grip on her thighs. Clarke will likely find bruises in the morning, and she’s sure that Bellamy will take his time tracing them with his fingers and tongue. 

It’s her turn to smirk at him. “What is it that you always say? How’s that, babe? You like my hands on you, babe?”

Bellamy’s eyes flare and turn molten brown. He brings a hand to her tits and fondles them through the black strapless bra. 

He doesn’t care what Clarke wears underneath her clothes, as long as she’s comfortable. No matter what her curves are clad in, Bellamy always finds her gorgeous and sexy. Of course, this doesn’t mean he won’t appreciate it when she chooses sinful lingerie. It makes his breath catch every time, makes blood fill his cock so much faster. And this particular brassiere is really enhancing the whole experience for him right now.

“You’re so beautiful. Dressing up, all for me.”

He knows she chose her outfit for him tonight, and he intends to show her exactly how much he appreciates it. He adjusts his grip on her so that her chest is at his eye level. 

Clarke whimpers at the thought of what he’s about to do and lets out a moan when he starts feasting on her breasts, alternating between his mouth and his free hand. 

Her previous partners had all loved her breasts; they are pretty great, if she has to say so herself. But the first night she and Bellamy spent together, she found out that he could spend hours on them– and she doesn’t exaggerate. 

He loves to caress her breasts, suck on them, take her nipples in his mouth until they’re hard and red and she’s begging him to fuck her. He likes to swirl his tongue and fingers around her ivory flesh, massage them, use his teeth to leave his marks, until she pulls his hair and scratches his back. Bellamy doesn’t have as much time now, but he still takes a moment to worship them after unhooking the bra.

Clarke is about to lose her goddamn mind. 

Bellamy’s tongue circles a nipple while his hand plays with the other, and his groin is grinding against her still clothed sex. She’s losing control over her body: her hips are unconsciously undulating, high pitched sounds emitting from her mouth, which she tries to stifle by pressing her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder.  

She just wants him to fuck her. With the last vestiges of sanity, she unfastens the zip of his pants and frees the grown length from his boxers. Bellamy is hard and hot in her hand, and it turns her delirious. If they weren’t in a semi-public place with the clock ticking, she would drop to her knees and take her time sucking him off.

Clarke loves the way he feels in her mouth, his cock reaching her throat and making her gag. She loves staring up at him, seeing Bellamy with his eyes glazed over from the pleasure she’s giving him, his hand cupping her cheek or gripping her hair to assist in her movements. She adores hearing him telling her how good she is, how good she makes him feel, in that wrecked voice of his that makes her core throb. It turns her on so intensely, usually all it takes for her to orgasm afterward is a mere brush of her or his fingers on her clit.

Unfortunately, now they don’t have time, so Clarke settles for her hand around him. Bellamy starts thrusting into her fist, while his mouth never leaves her chest. The moment he comes up to kiss her lips, his hand slips under her panties. 

Clarke gasps when she suddenly feels two fingers enter her, his thumb finally touching her clit.

“God…”

“Bellamy is fine, my love.” 

Clarke is ready to respond in kind when he curls his fingers inside her, tapping her most sensitive spot, and any coherent thought she might have had flies out the window. Her eyes roll in the back of her head, and she clenches down around his fingers.

Bellamy bites her jaw lightly. “So tight,” he murmurs. 

She loosens her grip on his length and grasps at his back with every new motion, as he keeps whispering dirty words in her ear, taking her lobe between his teeth. Clarke is a mewling mess. She squeezes his torso in the grip of her thighs as he starts driving his fingers faster, jolts of pleasure sparking through her body.

“You gotta stay quiet, love. They’re gonna hear us.”

He really should put that mouth to another use, Clarke thinks. But she cannot deny the thrill of it, of people hearing her scream because Bellamy’s fingers are inside her, bringing her faster to the edge. 

“I’m gonna… Bell… please I’m gonna come…” 

Upon hearing those words, he crooks his fingers at every thrust while stimulating her bud of nerves with the palm of his hand. Bellamy’s lips draw patterns on her cheek, her neck, down to her breast again where he bites the perfect swell of it.  

Clarke’s walls flutter around him and her whole body seizes up for a long second before spiraling in pleasure. The orgasm washes over her in endless waves as she holds onto Bellamy, waiting for her body to stop trembling and for her breath to return to normal. 

When her mind clears up a bit, she hears his soothing voice telling her how beautiful she is when she comes, how soft and warm she feels around him. He keeps stroking in and out of her slowly, before carefully removing his fingers from her. Clarke pouts against his neck.

She loves the feeling of fullness after coming either with his fingers or cock in her cunt– Bellamy knows that. But he is also aware that every minute they spend here brings a greater risk of getting caught. They are mostly covered from the door by lines of coat racks, but still. 

Besides, Clarke can’t keep quiet for the life of her. He doesn’t want the headlines tomorrow blazing “Abby Griffin’s daughter caught having sex with her boyfriend at the mayor’s New Year’s Eve party”, all because she was too loud. 

He wants to keep her screams for himself.

Clarke presses lazy kisses on Bellamy’s shoulder, neck, jaw, wherever she can reach without moving too much. When she leans up to kiss his lips, it’s slow and languid, and they both melt into it. They pull back, and Bellamy brings two pertinent fingers to his mouth; he licks her essence from it, unhurriedly, all while maintaining eye contact with the beautiful blonde in front of him. 

Clarke’s eyes flash, and she nearly growls. She hastily pulls his fingers from his mouth and claims it for herself. She tastes herself on his tongue, and it sends another wave of pleasure to her pussy. 

“You taste so fucking good,” Bellamy rasps, looking at her as if near starved. 

He barely finishes his sentence before Clarke takes hold of his erection again. She slowly but firmly strokes him and, as he drops his head to her shoulder groaning in pleasure, she hears herself begging him desperately.

“Fuck me. Please, Bellamy, just fuck me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. After shoving her hand away, it takes only a few seconds to adjust his grip on Clarke, align himself, and finally push his cock into her in one hard stroke. 

They both groan at the bliss. Clarke is tight and deliciously wet from her previous orgasm; Bellamy’s cock fills every spare inch of her in the most fantastic way, making her gasp loud.

“Is someone here?” 

Clarke’s eyes widen at the sudden stranger’s voice, and before she can make any other sound that would certainly give them away, Bellamy roughly covers her mouth with his hand. 

She’s starting to panic, he can see it in her eyes. Her pussy clenches around him though, and he has to bite back a moan. God, it turns her on. Clarke is so turned on by the idea of getting caught, and it takes a great deal of effort for him not to pound into her right now. 

Bellamy leans down and whispers “Be quiet” into her ear. She nods slightly and tries to slow her breathing. They can hear multiple voices from the entrance of the room, but it doesn’t stop him from slowly pulling out halfway and pushing back in. 

Clarke’s breath hitches against his palm, and she shakes her head in alarm. He knows she wants him to stop because she can’t control herself if he keeps fucking her. But Bellamy can’t let this chance pass: he is going fuck her while there are people less than ten meters away from them.

He looks at her and keeps rolling his hips. “Be quiet for me, love,” he murmurs. 

Clarke’s eyes flutter shut, her chest rising and falling rapidly. On a particular deep thrust, her eyes fly open and she whimpers. 

“Hush…” he whispers against the back of his hand. Bellamy is doing everything he can to control himself, but it’s so damn difficult with Clarke’s cunt squeezing him in a vice. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, the voices get lower and the footsteps recede, until Bellamy hears the door click shut and they’re surrounded by silence once again. He waits ten seconds, fifteen, twenty. He moves his hand away from Clarke’s mouth.

“What the fuck, Bellamy, we could ha– Oh, my god!” A hard thrust interrupts whatever she was about to say.

He smirks and thrusts up again. “You were saying, love?”

“Shut up and fuck me,” Clarke growls and grips his hair tightly, making him hiss.

“As you wish, princess,” he grunts in response. 

Bellamy sets up a pretty hard pace, having waited long enough. Clarke doesn’t complain– far from it. She gives as good as she gets, molding her body against his and matching his fast tempo. 

They’re sweating and breathing hard. Bellamy’s pants are loose around his knees and Clarke’s gown is bunched up around her waist. Neither of them care though, chasing the pleasure only the other can give.

Nor do they care about getting caught again. The slap of skin against skin echoes in the small room, and if someone were to come in now, they would hear them for sure. Bellamy keeps pounding into her at a maddening speed though, and Clarke’s voice keeps rising.

When his cock hits her sensitive spot, she cries out. “Bell– again, Bellamy!”

He keeps thrusting at the same angle, and in a matter of seconds Clarke’s thighs are quivering around his frame. She becomes a mess of “yes”, “god”, and “please”, and Bellamy can’t do anything else but oblige her pleas. Her nails dig into his back muscles, which makes him bite her lips in retaliation. 

Clarke is right on the edge again, and she absentmindedly brings her hand down to their joining. Bellamy is not having it, though: he grabs her wrist and moves it to the wall beside her head, keeping it there. 

“No. You’re gonna come from just my cock fucking you.” 

Clarke almost sobs and Bellamy feels her squeeze him in a tight grip. He knows she’s right there. He is, too, but he will make her come first. He quickens his pace and leans down to lavish her nipple with his tongue, turning Clarke into the incoherent mess whom he loves so much. 

He interlocks his fingers with hers on the wall. “Come for me.” It’s his commanding voice that brings her over the edge. “Come for me, Clarke.”

Clarke’s body spasms, her breath catches, and her mouth opens in a long silent scream.

She sags against him a minute later, thighs still trembling. Bellamy soothes her, places soft kisses on her shoulder, and she hums. After another minute her breath has evened out and she has gathered enough strength to start grinding on him again, answering his silent question. 

“Inside. Come inside me, Bell.”

He curses and starts pistoning his hips again. He was already close, so it doesn’t take long to come and release his seed inside of her. Less than a dozen thrusts and some well-placed dirty talk from Clarke – who is also sucking marks on his neck, the little minx – and he’s the one shuddering in pleasure.

When Bellamy reaches his orgasm, Clarke moans as well. She loves feeling him, all of him. Before they started sleeping together, he’d always used condoms, but they had chosen to try and go without since Clarke was on the pill. Safe to say that now there’s very little in the world that Clarke craves more than Bellamy’s seed inside her pussy.

After they both catch their breath, they lean back and look at each other, noses almost grazing. Bellamy’s lips curl up in a smirk, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“Shut up.”

He grins, gives her a sweet kiss, then slowly pulls out from her and readjusts her underwear. He gently eases her down, then looks at her questioningly when she refuses a tissue to clean herself. She murmurs something that he doesn't quite catch, but Bellamy understands when a new blush creeps up her cheeks.

Clarke doesn’t look up. She tries to pull herself together, putting her bra back on and lowering the skirt of the gown, when her face is suddenly lifted up and her lips kissed deeply.

“You want to feel my seed in your panties while we’re out there,” he murmurs hotly, leaning his forehead against hers. “Let it drip down your legs.” 

She hesitates for a second, before biting her lower lip and nodding. 

Bellamy groans. “You can’t do shit like this, babe. You’re making me hard again.”

“Well, you better put it back in your pants, Blake. We’ve been here for far too long, we need to go back.” 

Clarke grabs his shirt and tie from the floor and shoves them into his hands, eyebrows raised in command. He pouts, and honestly he has no right to be this beautiful with his pants still around his knees. She resists the urge to kiss him again. They really need to get going. 

They fix the rest of their clothes and their hair as much as they can, and try to cover the hickeys and other marks they left on the visible parts of their bodies. With the few items in her purse, Clarke wipes away the lipstick stains on Bellamy’s face and neck, and retouches her makeup. 

With a last look behind them, they leave the wardrobe room, mischievous expressions adorning both their faces.   

The night didn’t begin in the best of ways, with her mom watching her dress with poorly concealed distaste and telling her what to say and not to say in the presence of the town’s élite. Clarke had to make an effort not to roll her eyes and tell her off (multiple times). She also had to endure an exceptionally obnoxious friend of her mother as soon as they got off the car, barely inside the hotel. 

Thankfully, Bellamy arrived shortly after, and the night became immediately better. They had fun people-watching and mocking the ridiculous attire, jewellery and hairstyles that the high-class women sported. He had a blast playing the part of the rich gentleman, too. He donned an English accent, bowing and kissing her hand, making Clarke forget about the looks some of the guests were surely giving them. 

She was Abby Griffin’s prodigal daughter, after all. And Bellamy was… well, let’s say Abby wasn’t the only one in town to dislike Clarke’s companion and disapprove of his presence here. Clarke ignored all that, though (together with her mother’s grimace when she realized her daughter was eating all the entrées she could get her hands on).

So she can’t complain, really. Especially not when her boyfriend just made her come twice in the wardrobe closet– before and after almost getting caught. That’s an interesting development, Clarke determines while walking down the brightly lit corridor with Bellamy by her side, both of them still content in their bliss. Semipublic sex. She shivers thinking of how hard they both came. She files that information for later discussion and exploration with Bellamy.

For now, she rises on her tiptoes to plant a small kiss on his cheek. He smiles down at her, tenderness written all over his face. They make their way to the ballroom, fingers laced and a relaxed grin on their faces. Clarke is sure they’re gonna enjoy the rest of the night, too.

“Where have you been?”

The sudden voice makes them jump apart as soon as they reach the threshold of the big hall.

“Mother. I was just...” Clarke quickly tries to think of something that her mother will believe, but Abby’s eyes widen in shock before she can finish the sentence. The older woman looks scandalized for a moment, before glancing over Bellamy in disgust and directing her ire at her daughter. 

“I should have known.” 

Abby steps closer to Clarke and keeps her voice down, always so careful to maintain the appearances of a perfect loving family. But her face transforms into stony anger, disappointment and outrage, causing her daughter to shrink into herself in a way she hasn’t done since her teenage years.

Clarke hates it. She hates how, even after all this time, after years apart and living a hundred miles away from each other, Abby is still able to make her feel like a failure. Like she’s not enough for her own mother, no matter what she does. 

Her mom’s judgment still cuts deep. Not because she deems her mother’s opinion about her or the way she lives her life important; Clarke thankfully got past that. No, it’s because she loves her, still, in spite of everything. And that’s precisely why it hurts, every time.

“I thought you had grown up, Clarke,” Abby continues. “I thought you had understood that with some people, it’s better not to get involved. I tolerated it when you were in school because you were a child, but I can’t tolerate it now. I got past the little stunt you pulled when you decided to study something as ludicrous as art, I allowed you to waste your father’s money on that nasty apartment, but I won’t stay silent on this.”

Her mother’s disdained embarrassment over every choice she has ever made for herself is clear in her voice, and Clarke grows mad with herself when she feels her eyes sting. In the corners of her eyes, she can see a few people staring at them, curious about what the Griffin women are discussing so intensely. 

She doesn’t want to make a scene. Abby would deserve it but Clarke doesn’t have the energy for it. She was having a beautiful time with Bellamy, and her mother managed to ruin it with just a few spiteful words.

The woman is still going on about how a conscientious lady from a respectable family would never fraternize with an uneducated, reckless man whose disastrous family certainly didn’t make him the right fit for her, and Clarke is trying her best to block it all out lest she starts crying, when Bellamy’s voice booms from beside her.

“That’s enough!” 

Both women flinch, surprised at his outburst. Clarke stays still for a moment, before reaching Bellamy’s hand and tugging, silently asking him to go and avoid all this, her mother, the scene that she’s going to cause, and the hurt she’s going to inflict.

He surprises her once more by gently shrugging off her hand and mouthing at her I’m sorry. Clarke doesn’t know what he’s gonna do and she doesn’t want to find out. She’s not scared, Bellamy wouldn’t do anything stupid, but she just wants to get out of here and forget about her mother. He has another idea apparently, if the way he stands tall beside her, brown eyes staring coldly at Abby, is any indication. 

“I stay silent whenever you direct your venom at me, Mrs. Griffin, because I choose to do what’s best for your daughter. She doesn’t tell me, but I know it would break her heart to see her lover and her mother fighting.”

If possible, Abby’s features turn angrier at the confirmation. Clarke’s heart pounds inside her chest as she realizes that the cat is out of the bag now: this wasn’t exactly how she had imagined her relationship with Bellamy to go public in Arkadia– but then again, people here have always talked about the two of them, and sooner or later it was bound to come out. 

Besides, it’s not like there would ever have been a right moment to break this kind of news to her mother. If looks could kill, Abby Griffin would certainly get rid of Bellamy right this instant. It’s clear that she wishes to respond to what she thinks is the greatest insolence to her reputation, but he continues before she can utter a word.

“I’ve always taken the high road for her. For myself too, because I don’t want to lower myself to your level of spite, malice, and resentment. You really can say whatever you want to me, Mrs. Griffin, because I won’t take the bait.” Bellamy’s voice gets lower, rougher, and Clarke holds her breath.

“But I’ve watched and listened to you shaming and belittling your daughter my entire life. She wasn’t enough for you when she was a vulnerable girl who had just lost her father, she wasn’t enough for you when she was strong enough to reject the path you had decided for her life, she isn’t enough for you now when she is a successful artist and about to become the co-owner of the Gallery she works at.” 

“Every single thing that makes Clarke who she is, you have criticized; for every choice she has made, you have humiliated her; her dreams and incredible abilities, you have deemed foolish and unworthy. But you know what the worst thing of all is? Clarke still loves you. After everything you’ve put her through, she still sees her mother under your cutting words and vicious looks. That’s the kind of person she is. She still hopes that you’ll come around and see how special she is.”

Clarke’s eyes are brimming with tears by now, but she doesn’t dare move or say anything. She’s watching Bellamy telling her mom everything she’s never had the courage to say herself, and she’s in awe of him.

The two of them rarely talk about Abby when they’re together, both preferring to avoid bringing up the past. Clarke remembers one day when Bellamy had insisted she told her mother how cruel she was and how much she had hurt her, but Clarke had said it was fine, that it didn’t matter anymore because she didn’t listen to anything her mother said, that Abby didn’t have any power over her life anymore. 

That was only a half truth though. Clarke could never really forget her mother’s words and the way they made her feel. With time it got easier, therapy and distance from Abby have helped her greatly. But Clarke has never told Bellamy that she keeps hoping her mother will come around and apologize. Or without the apology, honestly; she would welcome her mom with open arms if Abby simply said the words she’s been waiting for years to hear. Clarke just wants her mom to be proud of her, to be happy for the woman she is and the life she has made for herself. 

Now Clarke realizes that she’s probably never shared this with Bellamy because she knows he would look at her with an apology in his eyes; not because he feels responsible for her mother’s actions or for not protecting her enough, but because he’s sorry that he cannot bring himself to believe that Abby will ever realize how awful she’s been and apologize. And Clarke doesn’t want the reminder. Sometimes she likes to bet against all odds.

That’s the reason why she is amazed at Bellamy’s words. He knows. He knows without her sharing this secret piece of herself with him, and it makes her heart swell with love. For a fleeting moment, Clarke wonders how she could have ever been scared that they wouldn’t work out. They simply fit. And they both prove it to each other, every day.

“Clarke is special, and you’ve always failed to see that,” Bellamy continues. “Every person she’s met can see it. Her professors in college admire her, praise her art, her colleagues and friends care for her like a sister, the kids at the recreational center where she volunteers run to her when they see her. But you don’t know any of this, because you chose to treat your daughter like a doll that had to check all your boxes– and when she didn’t, you just threw her away.”

Bellamy feels his heart crack with an old wound that never really cicatrized. Watching Clarke being pulled apart by her own mother, knowing how much she suffered for it and how much work she has put into healing… it’s a miracle he hasn’t done anything like this before. 

As he told Abby, he did it for Clarke. He can’t keep doing it though, not anymore, not when the woman keeps breaking and breaking everything before her, and Clarke is the one left to pick up the pieces every time. He needs to put an end to this, for Clarke’s sake and for his own. 

“Jake would be ashamed of you. Clarke was his greatest joy. He loved her for who she was. He loved her when she got straight A’s and he loved her when she didn’t finish her homework and got a note from her teachers because she had preferred drawing rather than doing maths. He would love her now. He would be so proud of her”.

If there’s one thing Bellamy knows for sure, it’s this.  

“That’s what Clarke wants from you. She’s always wanted to make you proud. She wants to call you when she sells a painting, and she wants to hug you when you come to her exhibitions. But she can’t, because it seems like you do everything in your power to make her feel as small and unloved as possible.” 

Clarke watches Bellamy dry a stray tear with the back of his hand. She wants to take him in her arms and tell him she loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

“I don’t think I will ever forgive you, Mrs. Griffin. You hurt her too much. And I love her too much. But I’m sure Clarke will. Maybe one day you will realize the huge mistake you’ve made, and will give your daughter the love she’s always deserved but never received from you. She certainly hopes so.” 

Letting out a deep breath, Bellamy reaches for Clarke’s hand. He doesn’t notice that she’s never looked away from him this whole time. He keeps his eyes on a stunned Abby Griffin for a moment longer, before looking around them. 

Some of the guests are dancing, some are talking animatedly at the far end of the hall; but most of them are looking in their direction, whispering among themselves, surely wondering what was happening and what they were talking about. Some of them are shocked in silence, those who were close enough to hear everything.

Bellamy is sure that tomorrow there will be at least a couple of headlines detailing this: the huge blowout between the Griffin matriarch and the older Blake. He doesn’t care. He turns to Clarke, hiding her from her mother’s gaze and the other guests as much as he can with his body. She’s looking at him with those big, piercing blue eyes of hers that he adores– but they’re shimmering with tears.

For the first time since he began speaking just now, Bellamy pauses in doubt. It’s not like Clarke has ever wanted Prince Charming to come to the rescue. In fact, she hates it when other people think she needs to be saved. She can handle herself– and Bellamy knows it. 

Did he overstep? Was it too much? Should he have just kept silent and ignored Abby, and listened to Clarke when she asked him to go? Clarke never told him the things he told Abby. He understood his girlfriend’s feelings from the way she talks about her mother in the rare times the woman comes up in conversation; the way her eyes turn sad when her colleagues ask if her mother will be at the exhibition’s opening night; the way she draws Abby sometimes, stroking the charcoal figure with her fingers, lost in her own thoughts.

What if Clarke didn’t want him to reveal those things, especially to her mother? And if she didn’t mind that, he still brought up memories he’s now realizing she’d prefer to forget. Bellamy fears he made a mistake, but before he can open his mouth to apologize, she puts her hand on his chest. 

Clarke is not mad. Quite the opposite, actually. She doesn’t like unsolicited help, she doesn’t need saving, but all she can think at this very moment is that she’d run away with him in the blink of an eye. 

“I love you.” 

It’s a whisper, and Bellamy blinks in surprise. Then he sighs in relief and cups her cheek with his free hand. 

“Tell me what to do?” he asks quietly, giving Clarke the choice. 

He wants to get out of this place but he’ll stay if she wants to stay and talk with her mother, or go dancing, or go hiding in the closet again. Whatever the hell you want, his eyes tell her.

Clarke looks at the man she loves, and for a moment she is lost in his eyes. They hold galaxies and constellations. Her entire universe in myriad shades of brown. A sense of calm washes over her. Her heart slows down to a quiet rhythm, and her mind focuses on one single thing: his touch. Always steady, always home. She doesn’t realize she has closed her eyes, but when they flutter open, Bellamy’s expression is soft and peaceful, waiting for her, giving her the time she needs. 

After making her decision, she slowly steps aside to face her mother, Bellamy’s hand an anchor in her own. Clarke can’t say she’s ever seen Abby’s face the way it is now. Her mother is stricken by Bellamy’s words, body tense, lips pulled in a grimace. But the most prominent features are her eyes. For the first time, Abby Griffin’s eyes are wet with tears and filled with what seems like remorse and shame. If it’s because of everything that Bellamy said or because they managed to make a scene in front of the whole room, Clarke doesn’t want to know. 

She doesn’t feel any compassion towards her mother right now either. Whatever the party guests may think, she’s sure the woman will fix everything with a few charming words. “I’ve only ever wanted what was best for her,” Clarke can already hear it in the fake contrite voice her mother pulls off so well. Given the kind of crowd gathered here tonight, she doesn’t doubt that Abby Griffin can pull the innocent card and garner the sympathy of everyone in the room (and beyond).

“Everything Bellamy said is true, mom,” Clarke begins. “I wish you could see that. See me.” Her voice breaks a little. It’s hard, and she wishes she could be anywhere else but here, but then Bellamy squeezes her hand, and it’s enough. His presence by her side is enough for her to feel like she can do this. They can do this, together. 

“And him,” Clarke adds, looking up at her love for a moment, before facing her mother again. “I wish you could see him. He’s the best person I know. He said I’m special, but he is, too. I wish you could understand how lucky I am to have him by my side. I wish you could feel how happy I am with him. He loves me, mom, and I know dad would be happy for me. I hope one day you can be, too.”

Clarke’s voice is quiet but firm when she finishes. 

Bellamy places a small kiss to the top of her head. He’s so proud of her, for speaking her heart.

She turns to him, breathes in deeply, and when she exhales, she is smiling. 

“Come on,” she tilts her head towards the door behind them. 

He nods, and together they leave the ballroom and Abby Griffin behind.

There’s glitter on the floor after the party. The last notes of a slow, melancholic sound can be heard down the hallway, waving the old year goodbye.

Bellamy is standing in a corner of the lobby, a black suit jacket and a woman’s coat draped over his arm, loose tie around his neck, exhaustion written all over his face. Clarke is quietly walking towards him, carrying her shoes in one hand, feet sore after spending hours in high heels. 

She taps lightly on his back, then wraps her arm around his waist. He draws her closer to envelop her in his arms, and presses his mouth to her temple. They linger in that embrace for a moment.

“Gosh, this was a mess.” 

Bellamy hums in reply. “Not all of it, though.”

Clarke peeks up at him, lips curling in a small smile. “Not all of it,” she confirms.

After confronting her mother, they had left the hall, and she led them back to the wardrobe room. “I just need some quiet,” she told Bellamy when he had asked.

***

Behind the same rows of coats that had witnessed their previous lewd affairs, Clarke and Bellamy stood, holding each other and whispering words of comfort. What had happened with Abby was a long time coming, but it doesn’t mean it was easy to deal with. 

Clarke didn’t know what the next day would bring in terms of her relationship with her mother, but for the first time in her life, her heart wasn’t as heavy. And in large part, that was because of him. Because of Bellamy. 

What he did for her was beyond any expectation she might have had. She knew he had wanted to tell Abby everything she’s ever done wrong since they were kids, and she knew the only reason he hadn’t done that yet was her– even though at least half of the vitriol was directed at him. That’s how much Bellamy loves her.

This wonderful, selfless, stubborn man. They have been a couple for only two months, but Clarke knows that nothing could ever make her change her mind, nothing could ever make her love him any less. This is it for me, Clarke thought in the quietness of the small room, swayed in Bellamy’s embrace by his gentle movements.

“I love you,” she murmured against his chest. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” she pressed a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, his nose. 

Bellamy wiped away a lonely tear from her cheek with his fingertips. “Are you okay?”

She nodded quickly and kissed him deeply, trying to convey all the love she carried in her heart for him, until they needed to pull back and gasp in some air.

Then she sank to her knees.

“Clarke–”

She hushed him, and in a few seconds, she had him in her mouth. Bellamy didn’t complain any further: it took her less than five minutes to make him spill down her throat. When he fell back against the wall, spent and breathless, Clarke was wearing a huge, smug grin on her face, one that Bellamy promptly wiped away with his mouth.    

So yeah, not all of this night was a mess.

***  

Their moment of peace in the lobby is disrupted by other guests coming down the hall, forcing Bellamy to pull away from Clarke. Forgoing her own coat, she takes the suit jacket from him and puts it over her shoulders, then holds her hand out for him. He laces their fingers together. 

There’s a large, ancient-looking clock hanging at the top of the main entrance. Clarke checks the time before bringing Bellamy’s hand to her lips.

“Happy New Year, Bell.”

He smiles down at her adoringly, his exhaustion forgotten for a moment, when all he can feel gazing at the love of his life is unconditional happiness. 

“Happy New Year, my love.” 

Clarke sighs in content when he puts his arm around her shoulders, then leads them towards the big entrance door.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

It’s almost one in the morning when they enter Bellamy’s childhood home. They quietly make their way to the living room, carefully watching their steps. Aurora is probably sleeping, and they don’t want to wake her. But then, the woman surprises them when she walks out of the kitchen in her pajamas and nightgown.

“Mom. I thought you were already in bed,” Bellamy greets her. Then he frowns. “Are you okay?”

Aurora smiles affectionately at her son’s antics, constantly worrying about everyone. She gives them both a hug.

“Happy New Year, kids. And I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” she pats Bellamy’s cheek and shares an exasperated look with Clarke, making her giggle. “I watched a movie and I was craving a hot chocolate. Do you want some?”

Clarke and Bellamy nod and thank her. While Aurora prepares the hot beverage for the three of them, Bellamy goes to hang up Clarke’s coat and fetch some old clothes of his to give her so that she can change out of the gown. When Clarke comes out of his room in sweatpants and an oversize sweater, the hot chocolate is ready. They all sit together around the kitchen table.

“So, how did the party go?” asks Aurora. “How’s your mother, Clarke?”

Clarke sets down the mug and grimaces. That’s another reminder of her mother’s hatefulness. 

***

Abby has never asked about Aurora– not to know how she was doing, at least. After Jake died, Bellamy’s mom only ever came up in conversation in the Griffin household with snide remarks and harsh judgments about the manner in which she led her life and educated – or not educated – her children.

Aurora is different. She made mistakes, too– big ones. She ruined Bellamy’s childhood and for that, Clarke is still on the fence about her. It’s difficult to forget about everything her best friend had to sacrifice and how much his mother’s absence shaped his personality. He grew up too fast. But when he confronted Aurora and told her that she had to start helping herself, that he couldn’t come running at every smallest thing anymore, that he deserved to live his own life, she understood.

She understood how deeply she hurt Bellamy, and she apologized. For the sake of a relationship with her son, Aurora started working on herself, seeking help, and slowly but surely got better. Still a work in progress, there are times when she slips back into old habits; but mostly she’s trying, for herself and for her kids. That’s the best she can do while healing herself. 

Aurora is also a kindhearted woman. She never questioned Clarke’s presence in her house, she never resented her for her family’s wealth, and never said a bad thing about Abby. She mourned Jake too when he died, and was more loving towards a young Clarke than Abby ever was.

***

“The party was okay.” 

Everyone who knows Clarke knows she hates those sorts of events, and the people attending those events, so there’s no need to elaborate. At least she has an excuse as to why she sounds miserable about it, she thinks, given that she’s not going to tell Aurora the real reason. 

“And my mother is… well, she’s healthy. And… fine. She’s fine.” 

Clarke grimaces again, wishing she could say more, wishing she could do more than just hold Bellamy’s hand under the table like two teenagers sneaking around, but she only can take so much in one night. They’re both exhausted and lack the energy to undergo another emotionally charged moment. Telling Aurora about their relationship would inevitably be one.  

His mother puts a hand on Clarke’s and smiles gently at her in understanding. “Well, ‘healthy’ is all we’re asking for, right?”

Bellamy clears his throat and keeps his eyes on his mug. His mother eyes him curiously, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she deems it best to change the subject, so she asks them about their plans for the next few days in town. They chat for a while, and when they have finished their 1am treat, Bellamy tells Aurora that she can go to sleep, and that they’d clean up in the kitchen. She hugs both of them goodnight and heads to her bedroom.

A few moments after she’s left the room, Clarke is in Bellamy’s arms. They’re not usually this clingy, but the night was draining and they both need all the comfort they can get. She burrows her head in his chest and he presses gentle kisses to the crown of her hair. She’s telling him how she cannot wait to cuddle in bed with him, when a kind voice comes from the other side of the door.

“You know, there’s no need to hide it from me, kids. I know.”

Aurora tentatively walks back into the room, and her eyes are as soft as Clarke has ever seen them. She doesn’t know what to say, and neither does Bellamy. Clarke looks at him with wide questioning eyes, but his face is as puzzled as hers, and he merely shrugs. They stand there, holding each other, bracing themselves for anything that might ruin their moment of peace– again.

“I think I’ve always known, in a way. You were always Bellamy’s North Star, Clarke. And he was your refuge. Besides, he’s never been as happy as he’s been in the past two months. I knew right away it wasn’t only because of him starting college.” 

Clarke and Bellamy are still silent, but Aurora can see they’re almost holding their breath for… something. And it clicks, so she adds, quite emotionally: “I’m very, very happy for the two of you.”

They both seem to exhale at the same time, but it’s Clarke who reaches Aurora first. She untangles herself from Bellamy and makes a beeline for her, hugging tight, pouring into the warm embrace all of her gratitude. For everything she’s doing for herself and for Bellamy, and for welcoming her like a daughter.

When they pull back, Aurora pats Clarke’s hair affectionately. They both have tears in their eyes, and they nod at each other in understanding. They will be there for each other from now on, and for the wonderful young man they share and love.

Clarke is still wiping away her tears when Bellamy engulfs his mom in his arms. She hears Aurora murmuring something and Bellamy thanking her in a broken voice, shakily nodding against her neck. Clarke’s heart grows a thousand times bigger. It’s all she’s ever wanted for him: a present mother that can be there for his son and love him the way he deserves to be loved.

When Bellamy lets his mother go, they’re all a mess of tears. They laugh, then Aurora bids them goodnight for the second time. Clarke turns to her boyfriend and locks her arms around his neck.

“I’m so happy for you, love,” she whispers, brushing her lips against his.

“I’m happy for us,” he sighs contentedly, closing his eyes. Bellamy nuzzles her nose with his.

“Let’s go to bed.”

He hums in response, kisses her forehead, and leads her to his childhood bedroom.    

Bellamy wakes up with a grunt in the darkness of the room. He stretches his arm out to bring Clarke back in his arms, but his hand finds an empty mattress. He slowly blinks his eyes open and squints until he can discern the outline of the bed in the faint light of the moon’s glow. She’s not asleep next to him. 

He reaches for his cellphone on the bedside table to check the time– 4 am. Where is she? Bellamy groans and turns on his back. She probably went to the bathroom, he muses. She’ll be back in a minute.

When five minutes pass and Clarke has not returned, Bellamy decides to check on her. What if she ate something that upset her stomach? He crawls out of bed and manages not to crash against the half-closed door. He’s turning towards the bathroom when he sees a soft light emanating from the opposite end of the corridor.

He walks into the dimly lit living room, his eyes semi-shut and begging for sleep. Clarke is standing in front of the wall-length shelf by the couch, her back to him. 

“What are you doing?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“I was thirsty,” she whispers back without turning, but holds up a glass of water as evidence. “Then I had to go to the toilet, and then I was thirsty again,” she adds as he wraps his arms around her from behind.  

Bellamy is confused when he realizes that she’s looking at the collection of framed pictures on the shelf.

“And you’re drinking in front of the family pictures because…?”

“I couldn’t really sleep.”

“Mh-mh,” he hums against her blonde curls, looking at the display of photos in front of them.

***

Aurora loves her photo shelf, her most precious possession. She may have not been the greatest mother, but she never failed to capture beautiful moments of her children’s life. 

She framed the first picture of both Bellamy and Octavia, tiny bodies in their hospital beds and wrapped in baby onesies. The little girl was screaming, the little boy was sleeping– funny, if you think how those photos foreshadow the siblings’ personalities. 

She framed pictures of Bellamy with his very first book in his hands at 18 months, and pictures of Octavia learning to walk.

She framed pictures of 5-year-old Octavia with her nose chocolate-smeared from her birthday cake, and of 8-year-old Bellamy hiding in a suitcase and frowning because he had been caught.

She framed pictures of the two of them sleeping side by side, playing together, and hugging. Pictures of the three of them on Octavia’s first day of elementary school and on Bellamy’s graduation day. Pictures of her kids on the day of their moveout.

Aurora also framed a picture of Bellamy and Clarke as kids, on her 10th birthday party: in the photo, the little blonde has her tiny arms around Bellamy’s torso and he is looking down at her instead of smiling at the camera. 

And the newest addition to the collection: a picture of Bellamy and Clarke at the opening night of her latest exhibition in Polis. She’s wearing a burgundy suit and a huge smile on her face, pride lighting up her expression. Bellamy is wearing a similar expression, but again, he’s not smiling at the camera. He’s looking at the woman by his side, with such tenderness and love in his eyes that Aurora was taken aback when she first saw it after printing it. Some things never really change, she had thought. 

***

“You think looking at my mom’s photo collection will lull you to sleep? I think this monstrosity is going to give you nightmares,” Bellamy says, pointing at a picture of his 13-year-old self, cheeks full of pimples and awkwardly posing. “Looks like one of those things you put on tombstones.”

Clarke laughs. “Oh, come on now, you were cute.”

“Excuse me,” Bellamy squeezes her body and lets his teeth graze her neck. “Past tense?”

She rolls her eyes affectionately. “Well, I wouldn’t say you’re cute now, you’r–” 

“What? I’ll have you know that I am the cutest man who has ever set foot on God’s gracious Earth, thank you very much.” He wiggles his eyebrows, playful smile adorning his cheeks.

“Alright, mister there’s-a-picture-of-my-face-when-you-look-up-the-word-cute-on-the-dictionary,” she teases. 

“Am I cute?”

Bellamy spins her round in his arms and informs her with a mock serious expression: “You are a goddess gracing us mere mortals with her presence on this forsaken planet. ‘Cute’ would be the understatement of the century, my love.”

“You’re an idiot,” she snorts, but Bellamy can see the mirth in her eyes.

Clarke turns back to survey the shelves once more, and he puts his chin on her shoulder. After taking the last sip of water, she puts the empty glass down. Then she lifts a frame in which Bellamy can’t be more than 10, dressed up as a Roman centurion for a masked party. 

She holds it up with a bright grin. “History nerd in the making.”

“I actually did a lot of research for that. It’s the most accurate costume you’ll ever see,” Bellamy says proudly, pointing at the happy kid in the frame.

“Of course you did,” Clarke replies fondly, her eyes fixed on the picture. 

Bellamy finds himself staring at her. Her lips curled in a soft smile, and her eyes filled with so much love and affection that he feels his heart soar in his chest. 

“Was I at that party as well?” she asks, still looking at the tiny Roman soldier.

“Yes, you were. You don’t remember?” 

Bellamy is genuinely surprised, seeing as that day was one of his favourite memories of her. She turns her gaze on him.

“I’m not sure? Was I in a costume?”

Bellamy scoffs. “Of course you were in a costume. Aurora from The Sleeping Beauty. And I teased you because you were named like my mom.” 

Clarke’s eyes widen when the memories come back to her. They had met just a short time before, and that day was one of their first interactions. She was wearing a pink frilly dress and a small glittering crown, a costume that her dad had bought for her as a surprise for the party.

“Oh, right! Well, ‘teased me’ is a bit of an understatement– you wouldn’t stop calling me ‘mom’ the whole night!” She laughs at the recollection, falling more into his arms.

“Yeah,” Bellamy replies with a glint in his eyes. “And then I realized that I would make you even more angry if I called you ‘princess’, and so here we are now.” He gently bites Clarke’s earlobe, making her shiver. “I can’t believe you forgot the first time I gave you your nickname… should I be offended?”

“I do remember,” says Clarke, lightly slapping his forearm still locked around her middle. “I just didn’t remember it was at this specific party,” she nods at the frame.

“Whatever you say, princess.”

Satisfied by his reply, she goes back to staring at the photo, her fingers tapping on the glass in a gentle rhythm. Bellamy rests his cheek on her shoulder and takes her in. She’s leaning into his embrace, illuminated by the suffused light of the lamp in the far corner of the living room, just content to be here with him at 4am on New Year’s Day. 

It’s the most familiar feeling he knows. Suddenly, his mind flashes back to the tiny girl in the pink costume, and he sees her eyebrows pinched over her bright blue eyes as he kept calling her ‘princess’ the whole night.

“Stop it!”

“You’re dressed like one.”

“Then should I call you ‘knight’?”

“This isn’t a knight costume,” he had said with an offended furrow of his eyebrows, to which she had replied with the most princess-like eyeroll he’d ever seen.

A glint brings Bellamy back to the present, catching his attention. Clarke is fingering the small pendant attached to the thin necklace chain she’s been wearing for more than a month now. 

***

He recalls a late November night, when she came by his apartment after work. She had settled on the couch beside him, given him a kiss in greeting, and started drawing in the sketchbook she always takes with her wherever she goes.

Bellamy was studying, and for a few minutes they had both worked in silence. Then, much like now, something had caught his attention. 

“What’s that?” He had asked curiously.

“What?”

He had pointed to the small charm sitting at the base of her neck.

“Oh. It’s your initial.”

When he had blinked at her in shock, she explained: “I was passing by the jewelry near the Gallery the other day and I saw these beautiful charms on display in the window. So I went in and ordered one with a B on it.”

Bellamy had been bewildered at Clarke’s easy tone, like it wasn’t a big deal to her that she was wearing his initial on a chain around her neck. But to him it was. 

Seeing his shocked expression still there, she had shrugged. “It’s not because you own me. But cause you really know me, which is more than everyone can say.”

She had shrugged a second time, more sheepishly, a small flush creeping up her cheeks. Bellamy had surged forward and kissed her deeply, not taking his mouth away from hers until they had both gasped for air.

***

Clarke has never taken the charm off since that day, and now she’s absentmindedly stroking it with the pad of her index finger.

Bellamy feels his breath hitch. 

“Marry me.”

Everything stills.

A moment passes, then two.

Clarke slowly turns round in his arms, eyes wide open and mouth opening and closing multiple times.

“I’m sorry, what?” It’s a trembling whisper.

Bellamy feels his head spin as he struggles to understand if he actually means it or if it was just the spur of the moment– they have been together for only two months, after all. It may seem a bit on the nose, to the very least… if not completely insane.

This is insane.

He’s crazy.

But... Clarke was looking at that photo of him so fondly that he could see how much she loves every version of him, every part, the good and the bad. When he’s the toast of the town, and when he strikes out and he’s crawling home, she’s always there. She’s always wanted it all. 

She’s always wanted him. She wears his initial around her neck to prove it.

And it’s suddenly dawned on him.

He wants to grow old with her. 

“Marry me,” he repeats, conviction now clear in his tone. He takes the frame from her trembling fingers and puts it down on the shelf, then grasps her hands. His eyes burn intensely into hers as he exhales slowly.

It just feels right. 

“I know this has been going on seriously for only two months, but… we’ve been through a lot together, you and I. So, isn’t it fair to say that we have actually been together our whole lives?”

His love in front of him is stunned into silence, her mouth forming a tiny O.

“We don’t have to get married now, nor in six months, not even in a year,” Bellamy goes on. “I want to finish college first, and you have the Gallery and so many things planned, but I just… I told your mother that you’re special and that’s true, Clarke. You are the best thing, the best thing, that has ever happened to me. I didn’t plan this but– gosh, I don’t even have a ring, so this has to be the worst proposal in the history of proposals.” 

Clarke lets out a sound that is half sob and half laugh.

“But… I want to marry you, Clarke Griffin.”

Bellamy cups her face in his hands. Her eyes are shimmering with tears, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Whenever you want, wherever you want, however you want. But I want to spend the rest of my life watching you make art. I want to spend the rest of my life making you laugh. I want to spend the rest of my life boring you to death when I tell you about the Roman Empire. I want to spend the rest of my life loving you in the best way I can. I want to spend the rest of my life with you – starlight or starcrossed. I can’t even imagine walking through my life without you. So…”

He takes another deep breath, feeling the pounding of his heart in his chest.

“Marry me?”

Clarke stares at him in silence for several moments. Then, oh so slowly, she turns her head to press a kiss against the palm of his hand, before saying, “You fit.”

Bellamy frowns in confusion. Not exactly the answer he was expecting.

“What?”

Clarke scoffs affectionately, then sniffs. 

“You asked me once if you’d fit in the future I envisioned and wanted for myself when I was 16. I told you that yes, you’d fit.”

Bellamy blinks, and then remembers. He starts smiling, tears watering his eyes as well.

“I meant it then and I mean it now,” she continues, sniffling again. They’re both a mess of tears. “You fit,” she repeats, encircling his torso with her arms. “You will always fit with me, Bellamy Blake.”

Clarke’s voice is a gentle but firm whisper. She draws him closer until their foreheads are touching, beautiful blue eyes diving into deep brown ones. 

“I love you.”

A heartbeat passes. 

Bellamy tilts his head to the side.

“Is that a yes?”

Clarke’s laughter is the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“Yes, you idiot. I’ll marry you.”

“Here.”

“Thank you, love,” Bellamy takes the mug filled with hot black coffee that Clarke hands to him.

They returned to Polis yesterday, after spending two more days in Arkadia. After lunch with the Blakes (Octavia and her boyfriend Lincoln included) on New Year’s Day, Clarke had gone back to her house but found it empty. Abby had left a note, saying that she would like to talk to her when she arrived. But Clarke didn’t really want to talk to her mother, and had texted her so. Instead, she went to her bedroom, packed her bag, and headed to Bellamy’s to stay there for the remainder of their holidays.

She would call her mother later and talk to her, but on her own terms. She and Bellamy had found peace after the semi-disastrous party, and Clarke deserved not to have it ruined by whatever her mother felt the need to say. And if Abby wanted to apologize, well, she could wait and feel bad for another day or two (or ten, twelve, twenty).    

In the meantime, the young couple would enjoy their time together. It’s the first week of January, so Clarke doesn’t need to return to work until the following week; Bellamy, too, is free for a few more days, and he’s using part of his leisure to get ahead of his studying for some classes he has upcoming this semester. Other than that, they’re spending most of their hours relaxing, going for walks, watching TV, and indulging in their favorite pastimes.     

Right now, Bellamy is reading a heavy tome, half lying on the couch in his apartment. “For pleasure, this time”, he assured her when she had frowned at the book. She prepared breakfast while he did the laundry, and now they’re settling in for a quiet, lazy morning.

After a while, Bellamy is so focused on the words in front of him that he doesn’t see Clarke’s pensive expression. She’s drawing repetitive patterns on the open sketchbook in front of her, then she stops. He hears a tearing sound, and smiles a bit. Clarke is an exceptional artist, but when she doesn’t like a drawing there’s nothing you can do to stop her from throwing the whole thing away.

“Give me your left hand.”

Suddenly she’s on her knees right beside him on the couch, and his book almost falls on his face as Bellamy blinks in confusion.

“What?”

Clarke gestures for his hand. Bellamy sits upright, sets down the book, and does as she asks, eyebrows furrowed. She delicately holds his knuckles, then slowly, almost reverently, slips something on his ring finger. 

A small circle of folded paper.

“I don’t need you to buy me a ring, Bellamy,” she tells him, smiling softly. “I do like shiny things, but I’d marry you in paper rings. I love you, not what you may give me as a sign of your love. All I want is you. Just you.”

Bellamy looks at her like she’s life itself, like she’s the one putting the stars in the sky and the flowers on earth. Like she’s the one everything revolves around. Like the sun.

(Golden.)

“Recklessness and faulty emotional stability included?”

A huge, if a bit teary, grin takes over her whole face. “Recklessness and faulty emotional stability are a must.”

“I love you, future Mrs. Blake.”

“Hm. We’ll talk about the name, future Mr. Griffin.”

He laughs and surges forward to attack his beautiful, magnificent fiancée with kisses, making her squeal in joy. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, until the heavy tome and the sketchbook lay forgotten on the floor, until the morning light fades into a grey afternoon, until they have worshipped each other with lingering touches and whispered words, creating a new beginning together. 

Or rather, the continuation of a story that started a long time ago, on a snowy day, when two kids met for the first time. 

(They keep the paper ring.)

(Bellamy gives one to Clarke, too. Right before making her his wife.)

Chapter Text

~ 7 YEARS LATER ~

Bellamy is cutting a clove of garlic on the kitchen table. He has everything ready to make pasta with tomato sauce for when Clarke comes home: fresh tomatoes, extra virgin olive oil, spaghetti, salt and basil. He had to learn to cook at a young age, what with taking care of Octavia and all, but it wasn’t until he befriended an Italian student in one of his classes at college that he really perfected his art. 

His wife always makes fun of him when he gets “in the mood”: that’s when he tries to do things exactly as Italians do it. “I used to butcher one of the best foods in the world, Clarke, and I’m not doing that ever again,” he used to say when it all started. Now they enjoy Bellamy’s skills, even if everyone rolls their eyes when he sends photos of his dishes to his Italian friend. 

Clarke doesn’t really love cooking, but she can manage if she has to. She prefers doing other household chores, so they found a perfect balance when they moved in together a couple of months before getting married. Although, there is one thing she loves to cook: Pancit Palabok. It’s Bellamy’s favourite Filipino dish, something that his dad Edwin would make when he was a kid. Not only was he a great cook, but his dad was also the one who passed down his love for stories: he was the one to tuck Bellamy in and tell him all about Filipino myths and legends. Bellamy was still a little kid when Edwin died, but he had remembered. He’s always been proud of his heritage, too, just like his father. Sometimes he cooks Adobo on Sundays, but he hasn’t had his favorite dish in more than two decades.  

***

One day at the grocery store, Clarke heard a boy asking his mother if she could make Adobo for dinner, and one hour later she was home with all the ingredients for Palabok. 

Bellamy was in class all day, and she had enough time to get it ready for dinner. When her then-boyfriend came to her apartment that night, he stared at the casserole and then at her for a minute straight, before kissing her until they had to pull back for air. He thanked her, eyes blinking back tears, and they somehow ended up fucking against the kitchen wall. It’s safe to say Clarke came to love cooking that specific dish on special occasions.

***

Tonight, as most nights, Bellamy is in the kitchen. He’s stirring the sauce when the front door opens. There is some scuffling and murmuring coming from the hallway, thuds of objects set down on the floor, and finally steps. A few seconds later, a light apricot aroma enwraps him, as well as a pair of arms from behind.

“Hey.”

“Hi, my love,” Bellamy replies, taking one hand and bringing it to his mouth. He places a kiss on her palm. “How was your day?”

“All good,” Clarke murmurs against his shoulder blades. She squeezes him a bit. “I sold your painting.”

Bellamy scoffs. “Just because you keep saying I was the inspiration behind it, it doesn’t mean that painting is not 100% your work.”

“So you don’t want to know how much I sold it for?”

Bellamy can hear the smirk in her voice, low and so close to his ear that it makes him shiver. He turns off the stove under the pot, and turns around to face his wife.

“You’re a menace.”  

Her face lights up in a bright smile. 

“And you love me for that.”

“I do, Mrs. Blake,” Bellamy tells her, before kissing her slowly. 

They did talk about the name, and Clarke ended up choosing to use her father’s name for work occasions and Bellamy’s in private. It was the most practical thing for her, since she was just beginning to establish her own name and couldn’t go and change it so abruptly. But, at the same time, she also really wanted to be Mrs. Blake. So, she just made sure she could have it both ways.

Clarke locks her arms around his neck and melds her body to his, while his arms curl snug round her. She presses small kisses to his mouth, relishing their moment of quietness. 

Something, or rather someone crashes against Bellamy’s leg and tries to sneak in between them.

“Daddy!”

With a smile, Clarke disentangles herself from her husband, letting him pick up their son. Gus snuggles into his father’s chest, tiny arms trying to hug big shoulders. A daily occurrence in the Griffin-Blake house: Gus running towards his dad whenever his mom brings him home from kindergarten or a friend’s house. And yet Clarke melts every time. 

***

The way Gus loves Bellamy is something for which she is grateful every day, never ceasing to amaze her. Their curly-haired, freckled baby loves his dad so much, with such a strong, all-encompassing fervor, that everyone who talks with him for more than two minutes realizes that his dad is his hero. Gus loves hearing stories about fictional heroes and heroines, mythological creatures and gods and goddesses, epic stories set in a far away world. 

But when he looks at his dad, when he talks with him, that’s when magic truly happens: the awe in his eyes, the trust he has in Bellamy, the way he always asks him questions and listens to every answer in such a rapt manner, like he wants to absorb everything because “you know a lot of things, daddy, and I want to be just like you when I grow up.” 

Their son is an extremely smart 3 year-old. He got all of Bellamy’s qualities and Clarke couldn’t be happier; he’s basically a miniature Bellamy, and her heart grows twice its size whenever she pauses to think about it. Gus has one feature which is purely his mother’s, though: his big blue eyes. Safe to say both his parents grow quite emotional simply by looking at him. They made someone so special, and they are mesmerized by him more and more every day. 

***

“Daddy, it smells good. What did you cook?” Gus asks, bringing Clarke back to the present moment.

Bellamy turns towards the stove and Gus leans close to the pot to smell its contents. The boy pauses for a moment, then Bellamy asks in a mocking English tone.

“Is it of your liking, little sir?”

Gus looks back at him and firmly nods. Then he burrows back into his chest, resting his head against his father’s shoulder with a little sigh. Clarke almost tears up from the love that she has for her two boys.

Bellamy asks Gus about school, and Clarke is walking to the sink to get some water, when she gasps loudly.

Mr. Blake and little Griffin-Blake turn to her with curious eyes. When they see her frozen, with wide eyes and mouth ajar, Bellamy puts Gus down and quickly walks to Clarke, looking at her in concern.

“Clarke? Are you okay?” He takes her hand in his and cups her face with the other. “Talk to me.”

Clarke refocuses her gaze on him, then her lips curl in a beautiful smile, her eyes shining.

“She kicked.”

Bellamy blinks.

Clarke lets out a small gleeful cry.

“Again! Here.” She hastily uncovers her belly and brings his hand on her barely visible bump, then places her hand on top of his.

A beat passes in which Bellamy holds his breath.

Then, his eyes widen and a huge grin lights up his face.

“She kicked!” 

His voice is full of awe. For Clarke, for what she is and what she’s doing, carrying their second baby; for their baby, who apparently is doing somersaults in her mother’s 5-months-pregnant belly; for life itself. Once again, he thanks his lucky stars for the miracle who is Clarke Griffin and the life she has chosen to share with him.

Clarke gestures for Gus – who, until then, has been looking at his parents in wonder – to come closer. Bellamy makes space for him, and gets down on his knee so that he’s at the same level of Clarke’s belly.

“Gus, your mommy felt your little sister kick.”

The kid looks up at his mother with a frown. “Does it hurt?”

Clarke ruffles his black curls, smiling. “No, sweetheart. It’s just an odd feeling. And it’s the first time I feel her, that’s why I was surprised.”

Gus seems satisfied by the response.

“Do you want to feel her, bud?” asks Bellamy.

“Can I, mommy?”

“Of course. Here,” she takes his tiny hand and places it next to Bellamy’s.

When Ariadne kicks again, it’s Gus’ turn to gasp. He looks at both his parents with wide eyes, then starts caressing his mom’s bump delicately.

“Hello. I’m Gus.”

Clarke and Bellamy share a look: their son is the best choice they have ever made.

“When you are born, daddy can tell you stories. And I can help him. I’m big now.”

Bellamy is looking at his son with tear-filled eyes, and Clarke is not far behind. When they think they can’t love him more, Gus surprises them again. He’s special.   

“Can I kiss her, mommy?”

She nods enthusiastically, a few stray tears wetting her cheeks.

Gus gives a kiss to Clarke’s stomach, then another gentle stroke. After a minute, Clarke covers her belly; she wipes away her tears and motions for the pot on the stove.

“Well, who’s hungry?” 

Bellamy stands up, and with Gus, they set the table. While waiting for the spaghetti to cook, they talk about their day: Clarke explains her next project at the recreational center; Gus tells them that his teacher told them a story before nap time but that Bellamy’s are “sooo much better”; Bellamy shares a funny moment that happened in class with one of his students at the local high school where he teaches History (it’s his first year and he’s pretty excited about it). 

They eat, they laugh. They watch a movie, it’s Friday so Gus can stay up a little bit later. Bellamy and Clarke tuck their son in bed. He asks questions, his dad answers, and his mom loves them.

All three fall asleep with a smile, like they do every night.  

Clarke and Bellamy may have come from different backgrounds, may have been a little broken, may have limped at times along the way, but when they found each other at last, they created a miracle. They’re aware of this. That’s why they love, cherish and nurture each other and their family every day; always grateful to those two kids who once upon a time had decided that they made a good team, thus weaving one single thread of gold tying them together for life.