Girls are whispering when she enters the studio – well, girls are always whispering before the class begin, but today is different, more excited perhaps, with some kind of buzzing taking over the room and… Clarke gets it the moment she follows their gazes and looks to the other corner of the room.

Of course.

He stands there in nothing more than a bathrobe, looking down to his phone and apparently oblivious to the attention he's getting from young female artists thirsty for male subjects to draw.

(The reason he's here, mind you. But, still.)

That's the moment Professor Wallace chooses to enter the room, and he only needs to clap his hands twice for the conversations to stop and everyone to move to their usual easels. Clarke busies herself with taking her stuff out of her bag as she listens to the teacher – she's torn between pencils and charcoal for a couple of seconds, before she remembers she's studying at the library later. Pencils it is, then, not to go through the hassle of scrubbing her hands for hours.

"Today we're welcoming Bellamy, who was kind enough to agree to pose for us. As always, you have two hours, and you're free to use whatever medium you want and to draw whatever strikes your fancy. Just – keep it classy, alright?"

The same girls who were whispering earlier start giggling at that last sentence, and Clarke wants to groan at how immature they sound – they've drawn models all semester long, and now they can't control themselves because of a pretty guy? Please.

She rolls her eyes only to meet his.

He winks at her.

She clearly doesn't blush, thank you very much. It's just really hot in the room today. Anyway, she shakes her head as she focuses back on her pencils, picking a hard one for the first sketches. When she looks back to him, he's still staring and she gets lost in the black of his eyes for long seconds. It's ridiculous, really, but he's facing her and she's going to have to look at him for two hours straight and she doesn't know how she's going to do it.

She's a professional, dammit.

Of course she can do it.

Soon the pencil moves on paper and she loses herself in her drawing, loses herself in the moment. She looks at him but not at his eyes, never at his eyes, and it works just fine. He's all hard muscles and soft flesh, light falling on him just the way she likes, creating beautiful contrasts on his tan skin and making the freckles on his face stand out.

He's beautiful – both from an artist's point of view and a personal point of view – and time flashes by as she tries to capture the curve of his shoulder, the tendon on his neck.

Professor Wallace claps his hands once more, effectively startling her. She looks up to the clock on the wall, eye widening when she sees that the class is over already. Really? It feels like she started drawing only five minutes ago.

And, okay, the piece of paper in front of her looks nothing like a five-minute doodle, and she's actually quite proud of her work, but she wishes she'd had more time, wishes –

"Wow, you're talented."

And she's startled. Again.

He's halfway through putting his wardrobe back, not caring in the slightest if he's putting on a show for horny college girls in the process, his eyes on her drawing and – yeah, she's blushing. Again.

"It's okay, I guess. I wish I'd had more time, though."

He's standing so close she can see every freckle kissing his cheeks, and the small scar right above his lip, the speckles of gold in his eyes. Her fingers tingle for her colour pencils – to capture his image, right there in the morning life, warm and soft and beautiful.

"We can make it happen," he says.

And only then does she register her words, and his, and she's left speechless for a second because – how did she not notice she was propositioning him, not very subtlety may she add. "You want to pose for me," and it's a fact, not a question.

He grins then, dimples flashing on each side of his mouth – fuck, she's a goner, she wants to spend the rest of her life drawing him, she's just so pathetic. "I'm game if you are."

…

He says "Draw me like one of your French girls" with that smug voice of his, lounging in her crappy dorm bed like he just belongs there and – she chuckles and shakes her head even as she climbs on top of him.

This is ridiculous, really, because she still has a paper to write for her art history class and a hundred projects to work on, not to mention selecting some drawings for her portfolio and… And he keeps doing it, distracting her every chance he gets until her brain remembers it's Bellamy in front of her, and not some random model, until –

Yeah, until she's crawling on top of him, lips finding the pulsing point on his neck as he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her closer to his warm body.

"This relationship isn't fair, you know," he says, voice broken and breathless. "You always see me naked, and I –"

"Oh, shut up, you see me naked all the time."

It takes only a second before she's pressed to the mattress, Bellamy towering above her with a wicked grin on his lips. "I want you naked right now."

She rolls her eyes – her boyfriend, the romantic.

Her art projects will have to wait, though.