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Clarke wakes up to arms wrapped around her waist and her boyfriend’s hot breath in her hair. She wiggles around (earning her a half-hearted groan for her boyfriend) to loosen his grip in order to turn around and face him, admiring the freckles skin of his cheeks and how his eyelashes spread across them. Clarke snuggles up to his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around her once more, and is about to fall asleep again when her alarm goes off. The blonde scrambles to the bedside, trying to turn it off before her boyfriend wakes up, but she can already hear Bellamy grumbling. It’s too early, come back to bed, accompanied by a haphazardly thrown arm in her direction in an attempt to drag her back into him really is tempting.
But they both know damn well that she can’t stay. If Clarke isn’t home by the time Raven and Octavia get up, they’ll ask a million questions about where she really spent the night, and she does not want to deal with that right now. Bellamy and her decided it would be best if they kept their relationship quiet for a while before dragging all their friends in to it. They wanted to make sure it was real before announcing to the world, although Clarke has no doubt in her mind, but they made a deal. Bellamy grumbles a little more, telling her he hates when she has to leave, I know, me too, but she grabs her clothes and quietly leaves the room, hoping he’ll fall back asleep.
***
He doesn’t know when it happened, but Clarke loves to mark him up with her lipstick. After one spectacular night involving red lipstick and a fucking fantastic blowjob, it’s become a habit. Bellamy’s pretty sure she has an extra tube of her favorite shade hidden in his top drawer, next to all his condoms. Clarke just loves putting on her lipstick and leaving her marks all over him—his neck, his chest, his face, other places. Sometimes she even writes on him in it, a “MINE” written over the skin right above his boxers (one time she even drew too little arrow pointing down), or a “PROPERTY OF CLARKE GRIFFIN” scribbled across his entire chest, probably because she can’t claim him as hers in public, stupid plan.
It’s much easier to wipe of the lipstick than to try to cover up a damn hickey, so he’s not one to complain. Well that and the look on Clarke’s face when she’s straddling him and admiring her handiwork may just be the hottest thing he’s ever seen. So, after Clarke leaves his apartment, he’s usually scrubbing away the lipstick on his neck. Clarke even bought him a package of those makeup removal wipes to make it easier on him, isn’t he lucky?
But he doesn’t always get every mark, because she leaves like a million, okay? Smearing that fucking dark red all over him. It gets on his sheets, for fuck’s sake. Which becomes apparent when Miller comes up to him at the bar and asks why he has a lipstick mark under his jaw. Fuck. So Bellamy fumbles through a lie about some girl he picked up at the bar last night after Miller and everyone left, even though Miller does not look convinced. He’s staring at Bellamy, appraising his face, looking like he’s about to call him out on his shit when he shrugs, Whatever you say. Then he’s smirking, smirking, at Bellamy and walking away to go find their friends at a table in the back. Bellamy has to go to bathroom, scrubs furiously at the red mark right underneath his jaw, and tries to avoid Miller’s gaze when he makes it back to their table.
***
Clarke’s sitting at the bar, in between Bellamy and Raven when a girl comes up to Bellamy, already giggling. Bellamy quickly looks over at Clarke, eyebrow raised, before he begins flirting with the girl next to him. They agreed that a little flirting in public would be a good thing, keep their friends oblivious. Doesn’t mean she has to fucking like it. Clarke turns to Raven, trying to strike up a conversation that would keep the girl’s laughing or the image of her hand on Bellamy’s arm out of her head.
When Raven turns to talk to Octavia, who’s been tapping on her shoulder for the last minute, Clarke takes the opportunity to glance over at Bellamy and the girl falling all over him. She looks up at the girl and finds the girl already looking at her, well, more like glaring. Clarke is confused, almost offended, until she sees the girl look between her and some spot a little lower than Bellamy’s face. Interesting.
After the girl finally leaves, Bellamy looks at Clarke and everything becomes clear. There’s a small spot just above the neckline of his shirt, a small lipstick mark that matches the shade Clarke’s wearing tonight. She giggles, she can’t help it, and Bellamy looks at her like she’s insane. Clarke leans in close, placing her mouth just below his ear, You missed a spot (causing Bellamy to shiver, not that he’d ever admit it). Bellamy has to run to the bathroom, again, to scrub it off, grumbling as he goes. When Bellamy rushes off, Raven turns to Clarke, her dark eyes a question and Clarke just shrugs.
***
The last time Clarke saw her lipstick mark on Bellamy in public, she lost it. She wiggled around uncomfortably in her seat, her thighs rubbing together, trying to find some relief. And Bellamy just sat there, completely unaware (okay minus a smirk or two he shot her way), until they got back to his apartment and Clarke jumped his bones. So honestly, this time wasn’t going to be any better.
She’s sitting next to Bellamy at one of those rounded tables near the back wall of the bar her friends usually haunt. In the dim lighting, Clarke can see a light shimmer near Bellamy’s hairline under his ear. It looks like he tried to wipe it off, but didn’t get all of it. She can’t help but remember what she was doing when she pressed that kiss to his neck, wrapped up in him, crying out his name, Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy. Clarke feels the flush rush into her face, the heat trailing down the back of her neck. It feels too hot in here, her mouth dry. She takes in all her friends around her—Octavia is dancing with Lincoln, Monty and Jasper are fighting over something (or they’re yelling, at least), Raven’s flirting with the new blonde bartender across the room. Bellamy’s looking out at the dance floor, nursing his beer.
Clarke makes a calculated (but foggy-headed) decision to place her hand on Bellamy’s thigh. He looks at her in surprise, eyebrows raised almost comically, before he looks around, realizing no one is even paying attention to them. He widens his legs a little, pushing his leg closer to her so she doesn’t have to reach too far over to leave her hand there. Bellamy’s about to start talking to her, a safe conversation in public about his last shift at the bar and this crazy costumer he had, when her hand slowly dances further up his thigh. He tries not to look as surprised again, not wanting to draw any attention to them. Bellamy looks over at Clarke, sees a devious grin taking over her face, and god help him.
She can’t believe she’s doing this, right now, in public, with her friends literally feet away, but fuck it. Clarke brings her hand further up his thigh, dragging her nails along the inner seam of his jeans and he almost knocks over the beer in his hands, oops. Bellamy lets out a small curse, fuck me, when her hand finally rests over the bulge in his jeans (that sure wasn’t there a few minutes ago, but this girl is killing him). Clarke continues dragging her nails across the rough fabric of his jeans and Bellamy has to put his head down to hide the expression (and flush) on his face. Clarke’s hand is reaching for the zipper of his jeans, pulling it down, when one of Jasper’s enthusiastic gesticulations has his hand smacking into the table and Clarke discreetly pulls her hand away, taking a sip of her drink. Bellamy takes the opportunity to basically run away, you weak bastard, walking awkwardly to the bathroom to take care of himself.
She can’t help but smirk when he comes back, looking as grumpy as ever.
***
Clarke groans as she looks in the mirror the next morning. She can see a dark purple blooming on the side of her neck, a hickey Bellamy must have made after he fucked her into a dazed oblivion last night. Bellamy Blake is a dead man. Clarke is smearing foundation onto the purple-red splotches when Octavia comes barreling into the bathroom. The three girls all share one bathroom so they have long given up on trying to maintain privacy. Unless the door is locked, the bathroom is fair game.
Clarke curses under her breath and Octavia’s eyes focus on the foundation on the counter and the angry hickey on Clarke’s neck. Octavia cannot (and will not) hold her laughter back and Clarke groans. She is then forced to fumble through a lie about hooking up with some guy last night. When Octavia reminds her that they all went home together, Clarke has to revise—I met him last week, I gave him my number, and then he texted me last night after we got home and I snuck out to see him. Octavia can’t hide her skepticism so Clarke blurts out a fake name—George? Clarke, come on. Thankfully, Octavia accepts her horrid lie, but relishes retelling the story to Raven when they all gather in the kitchen a half hour later and pointing out the giant bruise of Clarke’s neck (the makeup didn’t really help).
***
Later that night, after surviving a day of torment and hazing from all her friends, Clarke is cuddled up in Bellamy’s bed. Maybe we should just tell them, you asshole, and Bellamy is grinning and taking her face between his hands to kiss her.
The next day, Bellamy breaks the news by sporting his own hickey, courtesy of Clarke, of course, and telling them as much. Honestly, no one looks that surprised.