(saved the best for last and then forgot i learned how to save ask responses in drafts and never posted this! oh hi, @bgonemydear!! 💛)
cocoa — if you could have any type of hair, what colour and cut would you have?
answered this one this other day, BUT. that was a ~what’s next~ response, so here’s a ~dream scenario~ response: i’d LOVE to try fully bleached-out blonde hair. if i had thicker/more hair, i’d try an undercut. extensions would be fun too?? idk, my hair is thin and flat and pin straight, it barely holds a beach wave. oooooh on that note, a beach wave with dark roots and lighter ombre/balayage would be fun and somewhat attainable—throwing that into the dream category too. maybe i should just share my folder full of hair screenshots here hahaha
cinnamon — if you had to live in a time period different than the present, which would you choose and where?
hmmm either the 1960s (for the music) or the victorian era (for the literature and the fascination with female hysteria) or the 1990s/early 2000s (for the music and the pop culture and the tv shows/game shows)
ghost — is there someone that you miss having in your life?
i’ve missed YOU for starters, old friend! in weak/nostalgic moments, i miss the fuckboi i haven’t seen in years (ugh, i KNOW). i miss the handful of semi-local friends that i used to see semi-regularly. but more than anyone, i miss my friends in australia. it’s been even harder to keep in touch with them this year and i was meant to be visiting them at the end of oct into nov, so. it hurts a whole bunch knowing that not only do i not get to see them soon, but it’ll be YEARS before any of us get to physically be in the same place again.
Bellamy’s vision threatened to blur and he swayed on his feet. Across the table Clarke smirked, eyebrow raised in challenge. The crowd inhaled and waited.
He tossed the ball lightly, wishing he hadn’t agreed to those shots with Miller just before the game began. Despite her smaller stature Clarke seemed significantly more sober, just a faint flush tinting her cheeks. It wasn’t fair, just like the deep v-neck she was wearing.
The ball hit the rim and bobbled in. Half the crowd groaned and the other half cheered, and Murphy just looked smug. Bellamy was fairly sure he was taking bets on both of them, but he hardly needed anymore incentive to beat her.
Clarke drained the cup and tossed it over her shoulder. “You shoulda quit when you had the chance, Blake.”
“And forfeit to you, princess? Never.”
She grinned. Her next shot went in without so much as brushing the rim, and he secretly wondered if he should have quit between their fourth and fifth game. It would have been a tie, but at least he wouldn’t be risking alcohol poisoning.
Or maybe he should have turned her down when she challenged him to beer pong in the first place, because he was not known to have the best judgment where Clarke Griffin was concerned. She brought out his competitive side like no one else on campus, and while a year ago he would have said he hated her, now things were a little more...murky.
He still thought she was annoying, but he respected the steel in her spine. And he might resent that her mother was the dean of the med school, meaning she was considered a legacy while he’d had to fight his way in, but he understood she hadn’t asked for her background any more than he had. She could be funny, and she was one of the only people who laughed at his jokes. They weren’t friends, exactly, but they weren’t really enemies either. They were something in the middle, although sometimes there would be a spark in her eyes and he’d wonder if they could be something else entirely.
Like now. Her blue eyes had gone dark, and when he missed his next shot she definitely licked her lips when she looked at him. His face felt unusually warm. He focused harder than he should have on the table, telling himself he was imagining things. Clarke sank another shot and high-fived Raven while Bellamy gulped down the beer.
Bellamy aimed, taking longer than strictly necessary. “You can always walk away,” Clarke goaded. “No shame in that.”
“Not a chance.” In a stroke of luck, Bellamy’s shot landed. He glanced up, ready to crow, and the look in her eyes stole the breath from his lungs. So he just tipped his head when she raised her glass to him, gratified when her own gaze seemed to falter.
“I know this isn’t your area of expertise, but I need you to not marry me.”
Bellamy looks up from his book to see a pretty girl with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes watching him, her expression shrewd and calculating. She’s dressed in what he thinks of as the standard wedding ensemble, at least here: a serviceable dress, probably one of her nicest. She looks a little older than his usual runaway bride, but she could still be under the age of majority.
He has no idea what she wants.
“That doesn’t sound hard,” he says, with an easy smile. “I’m not marrying you right now, I think I can keep doing it.”
Her mouth twitches like she wants to return the expression, but knows she shouldn’t when things are so serious. “It’s going to get harder.”
“Is it?”
“I had a young man bring me here thinking he would marry me, but he’s not going to. I think he’ll try to insist. Will you not perform the marriage?”
He has a number of questions, but only one answer. “If you don’t want to be married, I won’t marry you.”
She exhales her relief in a great sigh. “Perfect, thank you. I’ll be back later this afternoon.”
It’s far from the first strange encounter Bellamy has had since taking up employment the “blacksmith” at the Hammer and Rings six months ago. He’d been reluctant at first, having no formal training with metalworking, but Charles had assured him that no one had expected real smithing from the shop in years, and if anyone did need that kind of work done, he could always direct them elsewhere.
And that, at least, has been true. All anyone has wanted Bellamy to do is marry them, and that, at least, he’s good at. His favorites are the older couples who come to Gretna Green to be married quickly and without any fuss, the ones who have done this before and now just want it to be done with. It’s a settled in, comfortable kind of romance that always makes him smile.
The young people worry him more, mostly because he sees his sister in every willful young bride who’s decided she knows her heart and her parents could never understand. It’s not even that he disagrees with their decision so much as it reminds him that he doesn’t, and he thinks they probably know enough to make those choices, which means that he should, perhaps, give his sister more credit than he does. Which isn’t a thought he likes to sit with.
Not that everyone who comes to him is making the right choice in getting married, of course, but the bright-haired young woman is the first one to actually come and tell him not to marry her. That’s a new one.
It’s a busy morning–a local couple in their thirties comes in with a large group of family for a more raucous ceremony than usual, and then and older couple who just want theirs done as quickly as possible–and by the time the woman comes back, he’s almost convinced himself he won’t see her again.
But there she is, wearing the same dress, hair swept up, blue eyes nervous now as she looks around the shop. The young man next to her rubs Bellamy the wrong way as soon as he looks at him, although it’s hard to be sure he’d feel that way if he hadn’t heard the woman wasn’t interested in marrying.
Then again, she never said the man forced her–she had him bring her, under false pretenses. She wasn’t kidnapped.
Still, he doesn’t like the man’s looks, or trust him to take the news that he isn’t getting married well. But even if Bellamy isn’t much of a smith, he spends plenty of his days lifting heavy things and banging anvils. He can make sure the man doesn’t take his feelings out on his unwilling bride.
“We’d like to get married, as quickly as possible,” the man tells Bellamy. “It’s a pound fee?”
“It is,” he says. His eyes flick to the woman. “You want to get married?”
She wets her lips, but her focus is on her betrothed, not on Bellamy. “I’m so sorry, Finn, but–I didn’t come here to marry you.”
If he looked heartbroken, Bellamy would feel bad for the man. But he just seems confused and a little offended, as if the thought of a woman not marrying him is incomprehensible. As if anyone in the world would want to marry him.
“What?” he asks.
“I appreciate your escorting me, but I don’t think I’m ready for marriage. I’ll pay your fare for wherever you want to go. But I won’t marry you.”
“What will you do?”
She shrugs. “Whatever I want.”
Bellamy offers up a silent prayer to any gods who might be positively inclined toward a man with a few things in common with a priest, asking whoever is listening to make Finn just walk away.
But his jaw works. “You can still marry us, can’t you?” he asks Bellamy.
“I marry people who consent to be married. She doesn’t. I can’t do anything for you.”
“Clarke,” says Finn, turning his attention to the woman, voice pleading.
At least Bellamy knows her name now.
“We don’t have anything to talk about. I’m sorry I had to lie to you, but I needed to get out. I appreciate what you did for me.”
“And that’s it,” he says. “Just like that.”
She shrugs. “Just like that.”
“At least let me walk you back to the inn. We can talk. I can make you–” He seems to realize that’s a bad road to go down. “You have to see reason. If you go home unmarried–think of your reputation, Clarke! Be reasonable.”
“I can care for my own reputation, thank you. And walk myself home. But I’d like to–” She must be casting about for an excuse to not leave with this man, so Bellamy steps in. He did promise to not marry her; he might as well make sure he finishes the job.
“See the anvil?” he supplies. “A lot of people do. Mine’s an antique.”
“Yes, please.”
Finn looks like he might still protest, but Bellamy carries himself so he doesn’t look as big as he is, for the most part, and he can make himself look bigger when he wants to.
“For your train fare,” Clarke tells Finn, handing him a small bag. “I really can’t thank you enough.”
Judging by the way his hand dips when he takes the money, it’s more than he was expecting, and apparently enough to mollify him. “What should I tell your family if I see them?”
“That we didn’t marry after all. And that I’m not coming back.”
With that, he’s finally convinced to take his leave, and once he’s gone, Clarke slumps against the wall in relief. “Thank you,” she tells him, eyes flicking up to meet his.
Bellamy shrugs. “It’s not much harder than marrying someone.”
“Still, I robbed you of a fee.” She finds a pound in her purse and gives it to him. “The same rate, yes?”
“People don’t usually pay me for not marrying them. I’d be rich.”
She smiles. “Just this once. Can I see the anvil?”
He shows her around the shop, which doesn’t take long, and calls Octavia in to watch it after so he can walk Clarke back to her inn, in case her former fiance is waiting to make his case again. She gathers her things and asks him if he knows the location of a good boarding house.
“I can’t thank you enough,” she says, once he’s brought her to one.
“It was my pleasure,” he says. “I don’t get to not marry people very often.”
She laughs. “You’re very good at it.”
“Thank you. I hope–” He still doesn’t know what happened to her, why she hatched this scheme or what she plans to do, so it’s hard to know what well wishes she might appreciate. “You enjoy the rest of your time here,” he settles on, at last.
She smiles. “I hope so too.”
*
Three days later, she’s waiting by the shop door when he arrives to open up, her arms full of flowers.
“Good morning,” he says, frowning. “Do you need to not be married again?”
She smiles, a bright, sudden thing, gone as quickly as it came. “I think I’m sufficiently unmarried.”
“I’m glad it took.” He unlocks the door. “How can I help you?”
“That was my question to you.”
“Was it?”
She shrugs. “You perform marriages.”
“Usually.”
“And you’re paid a pound.”
“Depending. Some people pay more, some less. It depends on how much they have and how generous they’re feeling.”
Clarke nods. “The law is that two people have to agree to be married in front of witnesses, yes?”
“It is.”
“So you need another witness sometimes. I can do that.”
“So can my sister. I manage fine.”
“I need an occupation. I have flowers,” she adds, showing off her armful. “Which people might like. It doesn’t have to be much, but flowers are traditional.”
“You understand that people come to be married here because they don’t want to bother with a real wedding,” he points out. “If they wanted flowers–”
“You can want flowers without wanting a real wedding. Can I try it?”
“Try what, exactly?”
“Being a witness and offering flowers.”
Bellamy considers her, taking in the changes of the last few days. She’s dressed more plainly now, or at least less ostentatiously. As the son of a seamstress, he’s always had a good sense for clothing, and while the dress isn’t flashy, it’s well made, with some detailing that would cost money. She gave Finn a bag of coin to get him to leave, and gave him a pound too, and now she’s obtained a good number of flowers. It’s possible she’s reckless with her money, but she doesn’t feel reckless to him. She has enough money she can use it to solve her problems: to rid herself of a troublesome suitor, to buy flowers for weddings.
To make a good impression on the man who performs those weddings.
“If you’d like,” he says. “We weren’t ever introduced.”
“Clarke,” she says. No surname, no title. Just Clarke.
“Bellamy,” he says. “Come in.”
He’s not expecting Clarke’s gambit to pay off, but the first couple of the day smiles when she offers them flowers, and they pay her two shillings for the flowers and another two to be their witness. It’s not going to make her rich, but she’s making more than it cost her to buy the flowers, and the couple seems to appreciate it.
“Can I come back tomorrow?” she asks, and Bellamy shrugs.
“If you’d like. Are you planning to say here?” he can’t help asking. “I thought you’d give your fiance a few days to leave and then go yourself.”
“Why would I go? It’s nice here.”
He’d need a great deal more context about her life than he has to offer a good reason for her to not settle in Gretna Green, but at least if she keeps on working for him, he might someday get that information. And he’ll know how she’s doing, too. He likes keeping up with people.
“Then you can come back whenever you like,” he says, and is rewarded with another one of her smiles.
“Thank you.”
He may come to regret it, but he hasn’t yet, so all he says is, “You’re welcome. I’m looking forward to having some help.”
*
Bellamy’s too stubborn to just ask for Clarke’s story, so he puts things together slowly, picking up the pieces she scatters and trying to assemble them into a picture that makes sense. She mentions her family rarely, but both of her parents are alive, and they seem well off; she’ll mention a gown her mother bought for her or some business her father is involved in, things that speak of having money to spare. She has a few friends she’ll reference in passing, but he gets the impression that she’d grown apart from them for one reason or another even before she left her whole life behind.
Mostly, it doesn’t bother him, not knowing the particulars of her life, because he knows the broad strokes of her. She’s smart and interesting, good company when things aren’t too busy. Octavia had been getting tired of having to be on site to be a witness if he required one, and she’s glad to have someone else take over her position. Bellamy isn’t rich, but he has enough that he can give Clarke a cut, and it seems to be enough for her to get by. She seems to like being here, and he likes having her.
Every now and then, Octavia will ask if he’s going to marry her, and he always says no, less because he doesn’t want to marry her and more because he doesn’t think he will. He certainly doesn’t know how to ask.
It’s a recurring theme with Clarke: he never knows how to just say what he wants.
Almost a year after they first met, though, she gives him at least some of the answers he’s been looking for, showing up late with a newspaper instead of flowers in her shaking hands.
“What happened?” he asks.
“My father passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming out before he’s even consciously thought them, the expected response, but he has no idea if it’s appropriate. “I assume.”
That makes her smile. “I am sorry. But it’s complicated.”
“You know you can always talk to me, if you want.”
She sighs. “He wanted me to marry. Someone he picked out.”
“I thought as much.”
“I thought it was greed. He and my mother had plenty, I thought they just wanted more. But if he was ill–” She sighs. “He probably wanted to make sure I would be taken care of once he was gone.”
“Will your mother be all right?”
“Without me to worry about, she should be.” She sighs, rubs her face. “I wasn’t planning to go back, so why do I feel guilty now that he’s dead for not seeing him? I wouldn’t if he was alive.”
“I’m not sure. My father died when I was three, and my mother died when I was there. But maybe you thought the two of you would make it up, someday.”
“Maybe.” She sighs. “And I blame myself. When I left, it probably broke his heart.”
“Did you ever get in touch with them again? After your elopement.”
“I wrote them a letter and sent it through my friend Wells, so they wouldn’t know where I was.”
He frowns. “Didn’t you tell them you were running away to Gretna Green?”
“Yes, but no one stays here. They just come here to get married and leave.”
It’s exactly what he thought she’d do when he first met her, so he can’t really argue the point. People do move here–he moved here himself, after his mother died–but it’s not exactly a destination for well-born young ladies.
“Were they looking for you?”
“I honestly don’t know. I burned my bridges very thoroughly when I left. Not marrying the man you elope with does much more harm to your reputation than marrying him would. They couldn’t have taken me back. But–I did love them.”
“So why did you leave?”
Her mouth twitches. “How long have you been wanting to ask that?”
“I figured you’d tell me.”
“If you ever asked.” She wets her lips. “As I said, he must have known of the illness,but he didn’t tell me. All he told me was that I needed to marry as soon as possible. He picked a groom, but his taste was very poor.”
“So you found someone to run away with.”
“I know it seems–” She sighs. “I said I wouldn’t marry Mr. Wallace, and he said I would. If I stayed, he would have made me.”
“You were old enough to say no.”
“And then there would be another, and another. I couldn’t stay knowing he didn’t care what I wanted. So I gave him a story about what I wanted that he could believe.”
“What do you want?” he asks.
She opens her mouth and then closes it, rethinking whatever she was going to say. “When I left, I didn’t know. I just knew that marrying some rich stranger wasn’t it.”
“But you know now?”
“I want what I have,” she says, as if she’s making her mind up about it slowly. “Just this.”
“Good.”
“And I want to go to London.”
“Oh?”
“Not to stay. Just for the funeral, to pay my respects. He was still my father,” she adds, her tone tinged with steel. “I loved him.”
He nods. “Of course. Do you want company?”
When she really smiles, Clarke doesn’t like to be seen, like she’s embarrassed by the expression. She ducks her head, but he can still spot the edges of it, warm and soft, making his heart skip. “Would you mind?”
“Of course not. I can always find something to do in London.”
She shows her amusement this time. “Have you ever been to London?”
“No,” he admits. “But I’m sure I could find something to do if I went.”
“I have some ideas.”
“Such as?”
“You’d probably like the British Museum.”
“I probably would. When are we leaving?”
*
Bellamy isn’t famous, really, but he is somewhat notorious. The anvil priest is a dying breed, a casualty of modernity, and Bellamy is likely the last there will ever be. There’s been talk of changing the law, to move away from the old rites, but people like what he does. And he is, if he does say so himself, charming and engaging, a perfect symbol of the entire institution of irregular marriage. He has a reputation, and there are people now who come to have him marry them, specifically.
Which he encourages as much as possible; he can use all the business he can get. And all the publicity.
So he brings his anvil to London with them.
“It can’t be that expensive,” Clarke observes as he hauls it to the train. “If someone stole it–”
“It’s an antique, Clarke. It’s irreplaceable. If I’m losing a few days of work, then I should at least get some attention out of it.”
He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth; Clarke’s expression clouds. “You don’t have to–”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I haven’t had a holiday in years. But if I can get some publicity for the shop while I’m at it, I might as well.”
“You can’t bring the anvil to the funeral. Or the British Museum.”
She’s smiling now, so he lets himself smile too. “It would take some of the focus off you.”
“And remove the mystery of where I’m living.”
“I’ll leave it in the hotel,” he promises. “Don’t worry.”
There’s a crowd to see them off at the train station, the whole town laughing and jeering as Bellamy hefts his anvil up before him. Clarke’s right, it would be easier to just replace it if someone did steal it, which he can’t imagine they would. But everyone will be talking about this, and they’ll talk about it in London too. He doesn’t have to cart it with him everywhere he goes, just to and from the train, and then, once he’s not holding it, he’ll disappear.
It’s quite a trick.
Once they’re in London, he realizes there was some part of him that worried Clarke missed it, that she would change as soon as she stepped off the train. Maybe she missed this, being a part of society, being somewhere exciting. Maybe she’s not meant to stay with him.
“The air’s so dirty here,” she says, making a face, and Bellamy lets out a breath.
“It is. Good thing we aren’t staying too long.”
Clarke is quiet for a second, and then she says, “I was thinking.”
His heart lodges in his throat. “Thinking?”
“I’m going to need to tell my mother who you are. I don’t know what I should say.”
“You can’t just say I’m a friend?” he asks. “Coming to support you?”
“I doubt she’ll believe me.”
“So you’d rather tell her a lie she will believe? It’s up to you,” he adds, before she can respond. “I’m here to support you, and I’ll do that however you think would be best. If you want to tell her you did get married in Gretna Green after all, that’s fine. Or we could be living in sin, if you want to scandalize her.”
That makes her laugh, and some of the tension drains from her frame. “You’re right, it doesn’t really matter what I say. She’s going to believe the worst no matter what.”
“What’s the worst?”
“That we’re not married but I’ve already had one of your children and more are on the way.”
“I can think of worse things.”
“My mother can’t.”
“As I said, whatever you want to tell her. I’m here to make your life easier.”
“Thank you.”
He shrugs, not sure what to say. It’s no great sacrifice for him. Not even a small one. He wouldn’t be anywhere else. “Well, you are taking me to the museum.”
They spend a day being tourists, which is nice, and the second day, they go to the funeral. Bellamy knew Clarke came from money, but it’s different experiencing it in person, all the well-dressed mourners and the large casket. He doesn’t think of death as an opulent affair, but he’s never known anyone rich who died before. Apparently, they go all out.
Clarke introduces him as her husband, mostly so she doesn’t have to have a long conversation with any friends or relatives about who he actually is. Plenty of them heard she’d run off to get married, so it’s what they expected, the rebellious daughter and her low-born husband, here to disgrace the family. The bigger surprise is that she came at all.
They make it through fifteen minutes of introductions and small talk before Clarke’s mother appears, not that Bellamy actually recognizes her as Abigail Griffin. She’s just another woman dressed in black, her grief no more apparent than anyone else’s, but she yanks Clarke’s arm, eyes roving over her, cataloging every difference.
“You came,” is what she finally says to Clarke.
“I saw in the paper.”
Her gaze moves from Clarke to Bellamy, taking him in too. He thinks he knows some of what she’ll focus on–the shade of his skin, the quality of his clothing–but he holds his head high and meets her eyes when she gets to his face. He’s here because Clarke wants him to be here; that’s the only thing that matters.
“Is this your husband?”
“Bellamy, yes. Bellamy, my mother, Abigail Griffin.”
Abigail’s mouth works, the expression reminding him of Clarke. “So, you went to Gretna Green with one husband and came back with a different one?”
“I went with a fiance,” Clarke shoots back. “I traded him for someone I liked better.”
Another long pause, and then she finally says, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Which of us?”
“Either. Your father was trying to help you, and you–”
“If I don’t want to be helped, it’s not helpful!” she snaps, clearly louder than she meant to. She recovers, takes a few deep breaths. “I know I could have reacted better, but you weren’t listening to me. I didn’t know what to do.”
“You weren’t listening to us either.”
“You weren’t going to convince me to marry Mr. Wallace. We were at an impasse.”
Clarke’s mother slumps all at once, looking older than her years. “Why did you come back, Clarke?”
“I don’t know. I thought I should. If you want me to leave–”
“No, no. Of course I don’t–how long are you in town?”
“Only until the day after tomorrow.” She glances at Bellamy. “We could have dinner? Catch up?”
Bellamy doesn’t join them. Clarke clings to his hand through the ceremony, so hard it feels like she might break it, but she says she can handle dinner on her own, and he lies in their room in the inn, wondering if he’ll ever see her again. If she’ll be spirited away or, worse, convinced to stay here, to return to the life she was supposed to have.
But she comes back as planned, collapses onto the bed with a sigh of relief.
“It went well?” he asks.
“As well as it could have. I told her I’m not married, but I’m happy. She said I could come home and she wouldn’t make me marry anyone. That I could do what I wanted.”
“Tempting.”
She turns her head to smile at him. “Not really. I’m already doing what I want.”
He smiles back. “Good.”
*
It’s a year and a half before he sees Clarke’s mother again, which sounds like a long time, but it’s much shorter than he was expecting, given he thought he’d never see her again. Clarke, maybe, would visit home, but he hadn’t thought he’d be invited, even if Clarke wanted him to come.
His relationship with Clarke complicated and straightforward all at once. She’s his best friend, his constant companion. Once Octavia married and left the house, Clarke moved into her old room. The town gossips are convinced they’re fucking or married or all of the above, and if Bellamy’s honest, he thinks they should be. But he hasn’t figured out how to ask, when he already has so much. He already feels greedy just for wanting.
He’s happy, and he doesn’t need more.
“I thought you must be the anvil priest,” is Abigail Griffin’s greeting, when she arrives. “I didn’t think there could be many Bellamys.”
“Mom,” Clarke says, startling as Bellamy shoots to his feet. “What are you doing here?”
She looks better than the last time they saw her, no longer dressed for mourning and smiling in apparently genuine amusement.
“Don’t stand on my account. I came for the same reason everyone does: I’m getting married.”
There’s a little color in her cheeks, a pleased flush that Bellamy’s familiar with from years of performing marriage ceremonies. Whoever she’s marrying, she’s happy.
Clarke’s jaw is hanging open, so he does the talking. “Congratulations. What kind of ceremony are you looking for? We have flowers if you’d like, and Clarke takes pictures for a fee.”
The camera had been expensive, but it will pay for itself in no time. And Clarke loves it.
“I heard the priest’s wife performs ceremonies too,” says Abigail, still watching Clarke. “Is that you? Did you finally get married?”
“Not yet, but I’m not a real priest either,” Bellamy says. “People like to simplify things.”
“Who are you marrying?” Clarke finally manages. There’s no sign of a groom, so it’s a good question.
“Marcus Kane. You remember Marcus. He was asking about a horse he liked, but he’ll be along shortly.
"You’re marrying Marcus Kane in Gretna Green,” Clarke says, voice blank.
“I thought it would be better to not make a big deal about it. We don’t need anything elaborate.” She smiles. “A picture would be nice.”
“Of course.”
“And if you can perform the ceremony–”
“I’ll be the witness,” Bellamy says. “No problem.”
It’s not as strange for him as it is for Clarke, but it’s still plenty strange. Still, Marcus Kane seems nice and Abigail seems happy, and after they all go out to dinner together, like a family.
“So, the two of you aren’t married?” Marcus asks, with apparently genuine interest.
“We just haven’t had time,” Clarke says, straight-faced, and Bellamy chokes on his wine.
“Of course,” her mother says, sounding amused. “It would be so difficult to organize.”
“We’re very busy.”
“Well, when you do marry, I hope you’ll let us know,” says Abigail. “I know that this place isn’t exactly known for long engagements, but I’d like to be here, and it wouldn’t take us long to come up. I’d like to see more of you,” she adds, to Clarke. “I know it’s been–difficult. In the last few years. But I’d like it to be better.”
“Me too.” Clarke glances at him, her expression unreadable. “If we get married, we’ll be sure to let you know so you can join us. We’re not in any rush.”
They finish the meal, but Bellamy’s mind never completely leaves that conversation, doesn’t move on from Clarke’s mother’s certainty that a marriage is coming, the easy way Clarke talks about it.
He doesn’t have to say anything, of course. Clarke doesn’t see to be planning to. They can go on as they have been, and he’ll be happy.But he doesn’t know when he’ll get another excuse to bring it up, and if he doesn’t take this one, he’ll be thinking about it for days, weeks, maybe the rest of his life.
They’re on their way home when he gets his courage up. “If you want to marry me while your mother is here, now’s probably easiest.”
She glances at him, expression impossible to make out in the dark. “It’s a little late tonight.”
“Well, tomorrow.”
“Can you marry yourself? Or would we need to get someone else to do it?”
“Almost anyone could, that’s the point. But I’d probably ask someone else to do it. If you–” He clears his throat. “I love you and I’ve wanted to marry you almost since I met you. So we’re clear. I just didn’t know how to ask.”
She laughs, a sound like tension breaking. Or maybe just a sound that breaks tension. “This might be the least romantic proposal in history.”
“People don’t usually come to me for romance. But I can get down on one knee, if it will make a difference. Come up with a whole speech. Whatever you’d–”
She tugs his arm, and once he’s stopped, she pulls him down by the front of his shirt, leaning up so she can catch his mouth as quickly as possible. Her lips are a little cool in the night air, but the kiss is warm and perfect, everything he’s been wanting for all these years, and he tugs her closer, reveling in the feeling of having her at last.
“Just find someone who can marry us tomorrow and I’ll be happy,” she says.
“I think that can be arranged.”
The ceremony takes all of a minute, Miller asking both of them if they want to be married, with Clarke’s mother and her new husband as witnesses. They kiss again and that’s it, no fuss, no great declarations. Not a great romance that will echo through the ages, by anyone’s standards.
I was about to be like “I have a bunch written” but then I checked and it’s 2,200 words and I haven’t added anything to it since February 11th and I feel like google drive is personally calling me out with that “last edited” tag.
We were discussing how Finn probably didn’t go down on Raven or Clarke and well, then things spiraled. Set at some point during season one. For the salt cellar.
Bellamy was working on repairing a section of the wall when he overheard two of the delinquents snickering. He set down the makeshift hammer and listens, because teenage criminals laughing is now something that makes him a little anxious. It’s not much, just idiot kids bragging about sex, but when he heard the first boy laughing about getting his dick sucked and walking away, Bellamy decided he needed to do something about it.
That night, he cornered the two he overheard a short distance from the fire. “I hear you’re enjoying your freedom,” he said as intimidatingly as possible. They exchanged worried looks, and Bellamy arched an eyebrow. “But before anything else happens in my camp, I think we need to talk about how you’re treating Ursula.” (He’d asked Miller for the latest gossip as surreptitiously as he could before starting this, and according to him, Isaac— the blond, skinny one— was mostly hooking up with Ursula. The other one— who had encouraged him in laughing about hitting it and quitting it— had several sticks in the fire, but had been thus far unsuccessful. Probably for good reason.)
Isaac looked relieved. “She’s into it, I swear,” he said, and his friend (Martin, Miller said) nodded rapidly.
“It’s not about that. It’s about being a good partner,” Bellamy said, and he heard a dry snort that could only belong to Miller from his side. “You have something to add?” he asked his friend.
“Probably not, if it’s about sex with women. But I’m still gonna listen,” he said, and sat down next to Martin and Isaac with an expression of faux-interest.
Bellamy rolled his eyes. “Look, I get it,” he started, and Martin and Isaac exchange a look. “We’re— we’re a lot freer here, and you might not have been able to...be with someone so easily on the Ark.” He couldn’t condemn them for it— he’d certainly had his fun the first few days— but he’d realized something from being with Raven. She’d initially tried to wave him off when he kissed her hipbone, and it was only after a quick conversation that she’d agreed.
And then, the second his tongue touched her clit and her fingers started tugging on his hair and he realized that Finn, in all likelihood, was one of those guys. The guys who, for whatever reason, felt that their pleasure was most important. A lot of times it was based on ignorance, or shyness, or even just a mistaken belief that for men, sex had to involve an orgasm and for women, it didn’t.
And Bellamy was not about to let that continue. Not in his camp. “But if you’re going to expect oral sex from someone, you have to be willing to give it in return,” he said, and Isaac’s eyes got wide. “So first up, communication.”
“Wait, you’re going to give lessons?” Miller asked gleefully.
“We’re going to talk about communication,” he growled, but already Miller’s laughter was drawing over a few more curious ears. Fine then— they’d all learn the importance of reciprocal oral sex and the female orgasm. “Any time you’re entering into a sexual relationship, you have to be able to ask your partner what they want. This goes for men or women, by the way.”
“I’d like some tips, actually, if that’s on the table, ” a guy named Sterling said as he took a seat next to Miller.
“That’s not what I’m doing. Now, it’s important to ask what they’re comfortable with, but it is also equally important that you be an enthusiastic partner. You can all have your own limits, but I personally think that if it’s something you want to be done to you, you should also be willing to do it for your partner. There’s always exceptions, but—”
“-- this is the worst sex lesson I’ve ever heard,” Clarke interrupted. “And why the hell are you doing this?”
Bellamy glanced at her and took in her amused grin and the way the firelight played in her hair. He wanted to say I’m doing this because I know there’s no chance in hell Finn went down on you, but for one thing, that’s not something you say to your co-leader. And for another thing, the thought of Clarke splayed out across his furs, his head between her thighs, suddenly made it hard to breathe, much less think. “Because I think there needs to be a little more equality in the orgasms around here,” he said, and Clarke laughed.
“We’re talking cunnilingus, right?” she asked cheerfully, and at the shocked gasps from the now-crowd huddling around them she grinned. “Okay, who knows where the clitoris is?” she asked, and Miller had never looked more entertained.
Bellamy leaned his lips down to near her ear. “I was planning on doing more like, general consent and enthusiasm,” he whispered.
“And that is both boring and not super helpful,” she said. “Well, that’s not entirely true. But Pike did drill us all pretty thoroughly on consent, right?” Clarke directed the last bit at the group, and Bellamy was met with a chorus of yes means yes and giggles. “Right. So, your partner has given you an enthusiastic yes. Now, the clit. Who can tell me where that is?”
What followed were some of the most painful minutes of Bellamy’s life, because it was Clarke and she was talking about cunnilingus and damn, not only did she know what she was talking about, she was hot and pretty and smart and funny and he would do anything to spend the rest of the night with his face buried between her legs. But she was with Finn— or at least that mess wasn’t completely over— so he had to let that go.
Clarke was now discussing when to add digital penetration while licking a clit, and he decided to jump back in. “Not everyone likes that,” he countered, and Clarke raised an eyebrow. “I’m just saying, your partner can tell you what they want. And if you’re the person receiving, don’t be afraid to speak up.”
“So you’re saying you like them talkative?” she teased, and there was another chorus of giggles.
I’m saying I want to hear you beg for it, he wanted to say. “I’m just emphasizing the importance of communication on both sides,” he said instead, and maybe it was a trick of the firelight, but he could have sworn that Clarke’s eyes darkened for a second, like she knew what he was thinking.
“Man, this is the weirdest foreplay I’ve ever witnessed,” Miller muttered under his breath, and Bellamy wanted to kick him in the shins.
Clarke clucked her tongue and turned back to the crowd, and Bellamy allowed himself a small smile.
Because whatever this was between them— it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
You know me too well to be this kind to me. Then again, “neurotic as fuck”, and “falls off the face of the planet for months at a time unless it involves tumblr and yelling about bad writing on tv shows until she just abandons it all together”, aren’t options so, I will take Blue and Purple.
For you I’m going to go with Blue (so, so blue)...and yeah. Purple for you, too. Because, apparently, I believe in the like attracts like rules of friendship instead of the opposites attract rules. This should shock no one who knows me.
