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For now, we make the rules.
His broad back is turned to her, his shoulders slumped, and yet the room seems to vibrate with his ragged breath. “I can’t protect anyone.” Running a hand through his chaotic hair, he cranes his neck to peer at her, dark eyes looming with thunder.
How she ended up with Bellamy Blake in the bunker that she and Finn found during the acid fog is not exactly a mystery, but it still feels like one. He’s the wristband-cutting bully, the man who turned a blind eye to the strung up Murphy, but when it comes to leadership she knows that she needs him; the passion that seeps into every word he speaks, his ability to make the crowd roar.
“Why me, Princess? I’m just gonna get you killed.”
Charlotte.
The girl Clarke wanted to protect, even though she killed Wells. An hour ago, she flung herself off a cliff’s edge, and she saw the terror flash in Bellamy’s eyes before it morphed into pure rage, directed at Murphy. Now she wonders if it was more directed at himself.
After taking another step forward, she’s close enough to see the emotion that’s carved into his expression. The king looks… defeated.
“What happened isn’t your fault, Bellamy.” Biting her lip, she hesitates for a couple seconds before continuing, “You were right. This is on me. I should’ve never confronted him in public.”
At this admission, he turns around, facing her. His brow is furrowed, but he unclenches his jaw and fists. “I’m the one who allowed him to be hanged. I kicked the crate from beneath his feet.”
Wait—he doesn’t blame her? At least not as much as she thought he did.
Without thinking, she places a hand on his shoulder. “If we’re gonna work together, we have to share the responsibility.”
“The burden, you mean. Clarke... ”
She blinks, her jaw dropping a little, because her name has never fallen from his lips like that before. Shockingly, there’s no simmering fury behind it, no frustration or even arrogance. In fact, she thinks she hears worry dripping at the edges of it. Now, he’s fully turned to her, causing her to become aware of the narrow space between them.
They’re breathing the same air.
For the first time, she notices the light dusting of freckles on his cheeks and the scar below his full bottom lip. “You’re smart. Strong. But—”
“You don’t want to work with a privileged princess,” she almost laughs, a little crazed from the anger suddenly shooting through her veins.
His jaw shifts, his earthly eyes flashing as they bore into hers. “That’s not it. I already told you. You’ll end up dead because of me.”
Why the fuck does he care about that? Feeling exasperated, Clarke rises up, pushing herself further into his space. “That’s a terrible excuse. We’re all gonna die anyway.”
Immediately, she sees something soft cross Bellamy’s gaze, and she’s about to look away, shocked at hearing herself say something so depressing, but then his mouth is on hers. Rough, demanding. The sensation strikes her like a bolt of lightning, sends tremors down her spine.
Bellamy Blake is kissing her.
He tastes like smoke and pine, his lips a violent storm raging against hers. But she bites back, taking his bottom lip between her teeth. When she does, his low growl reaches her ears; from there, it shoots to her core, sparks a fire. Placing his hands on her hips, he twists them around, his body pushing hers up against the table. Her breath hitches in her throat, and she has to whimper to regain it.
If this is their battle, she is not giving up.
Neither is he.
Flicking his tongue over hers, Bellamy deepens the kiss even more. Then he grabs the hem of her shirt, and she lets him pull it off her, but not without demanding that he loses his, too.
He concedes.
When the kiss breaks, she’s heaving for air. Despite this, her ocean eyes meet his earthy ones carrying passionate flames. Bellamy bends his head, sucking slow kisses onto her throat until her breathing evens out. Meanwhile, her hands roam his shoulders and back, shamelessly mapping every hard line of muscle there.
“Feel something you like?” he murmurs against the crook of her neck.
She’s about to roll her eyes, but then he presses his hips into hers, and God—he’s big. So much is obvious, but she would never voice that, not when he’s already smirking against her skin.
“If you wanna fuck me, then get on with it,” she hisses, causing him to draw back.
To her disappointment, her statement doesn’t affect him enough to kill some of his insufferable smugness. Amusement glinting in his eyes, Bellamy lets his hands travel from her waist to her back where they hover above the clasp on her Ark-issued bra.
“Impatient, huh? You want my cock that badly?”
Oh shit. Her comment clearly backfired.
Before she can think of a good retort, he’s unclasped her bra and thrown it to the floor. When his eyes darken at the sight of her breasts, Clarke’s chest sparks in triumph. She’s proud of her rack for a reason. What’s puzzling, however, is that while Bellamy looks like a starving man he doesn’t act like one.
Not at all.
Taking his sweet time, he weighs each globe in his hands, letting his thumb graze her hardened nipples. Then his eyes dart to hers, searching them for a moment as he worries his lower lip. “Are you sure this is okay?”
...What?
At first she’s stunned, rendered speechless. For a man who was borderline taunting her for wanting him a minute ago, this question seems out of character. It’s truly confusing until she senses the muscles of his shoulders tense up.
She’s gone too long without responding, without giving him permission. “I want you to touch me,” is what she manages at last, still a little baffled. Once she’s said it, she senses heat rise to her cheeks and turns her head slightly to hide them from him.
Bellamy just buries his fingertips in the crown of her hair, massaging her scalp gently. “Good.”
While she’s busy wondering what caused his sudden tenderness, he starts planting passionate kisses all over her chest, and the brief apprehension in the room is smothered by renewed desire.
Although she knows her breasts are pretty great, she never thought anyone would give them as much attention as he is right now. When he sucks leisurely at her nipples, she has to squeeze her thighs together. As if that isn’t enough to drive her wild, he grazes the underside of the globes with his teeth, soothing the sting that they leave with the tip of his tongue.
Clarke whimpers, pulling at his hair. The wetness building between her legs is becoming uncomfortable, causing the rough material of her jeans to stick to her skin. Desperate for some kind of relief, she pops the button open and drags the zipper down, but Bellamy’s hand falls to clasp around her wrist. "Don’t touch yourself,” he orders, his voice gravelly.
“Screw you, Bellamy,” she wants to shout, but it emerges as a needy whine, much to her dismay. Him being able to get her to this point of arousal with so little effort is embarrassing enough; she’s not going to relinquish control that easily. Defying his command, she slaps his hand off her wrist and does what she intended.
As soon as she dips her fingers into her heat, finding her clit, Bellamy spits out a low curse, but she ignores him.
At her first moan, he lifts her off the table without the slightest warning, forcing her to remove her hand. She barely has enough time to anchor herself against him before he throws her on the mattress in the corner. Despite the angry tears that are pricking in her eyes, she perches herself up on her elbows to meet his flaming gaze.
“Take off your pants,” he tells her, his hands placed on his hips. Her disobedience hasn’t shaken him, it seems, and even though she’s disappointed by that she decides to listen to his command this time, though only because having her pants off will grant her better access to her throbbing clit.
As she’s pushing the skinny jeans down her legs, Bellamy tugs his boots off and removes his socks. Unsurprisingly, he’s done this before she gets the chance to touch herself again. After dropping to his knees at the foot of the mattress, he helps her drag the pants down the rest of the way and off.
“I know you need it,” he murmurs when he sees her fingers hover above the waistband of her panties. “But if you can be patient another minute, I’ll give you something even better.”
Clarke snorts at that. He’s talking about his cock, isn’t he? Men are the fucking worst.
“Trust me,” he stresses, almost as if he can hear her thoughts echoing in the room. For some reason, she gives him the benefit of the doubt, letting her hand drop to the mattress.
Satisfied, Bellamy lets out a short breath and pulls her panties off.
Clarke feels herself flush and battles the urge to close her legs again, nervous from the weight of his gaze on her. His silence is surprising; at the very least, she expected a smug comment about her arousal, but instead of saying anything Bellamy places his warm hands on her thighs, coaxing them further apart.
Then he throws her right leg over his shoulder, earning a surprised yelp from her.
“What—what are you doing?”
He sucks a lazy kiss onto her inner thigh. “I wanna taste you.” The statement is so matter-of-fact despite the desire clinging to the edges of it. “Can I do that, Clarke?”
God. While she tries to push the words out of her mouth, which has dried up, her fingers fidget with the loose strings on the mattress. “Um, yeah. Sure,” is what she manages, praying that it sounds nonchalant, but it obviously doesn’t fool him.
He squeezes her knee gently, raising his head a little to look at her. “No one ever done this for you, have they?”
“No,” she admits, looking at the ceiling as her cheeks burn. “But I want to know what it’s like.”
For the first time tonight (maybe ever), he smiles at her. The curve that forms on his lips is beautiful and genuine; it carries a warmth that goes straight to her heart. “If you want me to stop, just say so.” In an instant, the man who asked if it was okay to touch her is back, and she wonders if — beneath all of the bravado, beneath the hurricane — this is who he really is.
She doesn’t get much time to ponder it, though.
Bellamy noses at her entrance for a moment, sending a pleasant thrill up her spine. Then his tongue darts out, tracing her slit. Of its own accord, her mouth falls open and a tiny “Oh,” escapes her lips.
“Want more?”
Her eyelids fluttering, Clarke brushes her fingers through his hair, only now realizing how soft it is. “Please.”
Sure, that single word is bound to inflate his ego, but she couldn’t care less at this moment. Still, it’s a relief that he doesn’t comment on her eagerness. Instead, he spreads her open with his thumbs and breathes hotly against her folds for a second before he licks into her.
Her hips buck against his face, causing him to groan. “God, you taste amazing. Lie still for me.”
Before she’s fully registered what he said, his tongue curls inside her, and she whimpers at the new sensation, discovering that it makes stars glimmer behind her eyelids. But he doesn’t give her time to recover, as he alternates between pressing deep kisses to her folds and lapping at them greedily. That’s what really makes her dizzy; his pure hunger, which she never expected to feel.
Not like this, at least.
When he growls, even more wetness gathers at her core, but Bellamy devours everything she gives to him. And then, perhaps to reward her for it, he sucks at her clit until she’s crying out, pulling at his hair to stay grounded.
She doesn’t even realize that she’s on the edge until he pushes her over it, making her squirm against his face. The orgasm surges through her like a tidal wave, stealing her breath, but Bellamy doesn’t let up. At this point, her moans are ringing off the bunker walls and the grip that she has on his hair must be painful. Nevertheless, he eats her out vigorously until she’s shuddering, coming apart on his tongue again.
Amidst the intense pleasure, Clarke hadn’t been able to stop the tears from spilling over her eyes, though she’d tried biting down on her hand to pull herself together.
Needless to say, it didn’t work.
“You okay?” he murmurs above her, his voice gruff yet gentle.
Forcing her eyes to open, she finds his, and they are soft as the rain-soaked earth. Because her thighs are still shaking, he runs his warm palms over them, and she finally manages to form some words, “Yeah, I’m—that was—” Even though she doesn’t want to say ‘amazing’, knowing that it will stroke his ego, it’s exactly what that was.
Fucking amazing.
And she didn’t feel self-conscious, not even for a second. He had her completely wrapped up in pleasure.
His eyes crinkle at the corners as they light up, and she feels breathless all over again. For a split second, she wishes that he would lean down to kiss her.
When he opens his mouth to say something, his hand moves to adjust his pants. It’s clear why: Despite him hovering above her at the moment, she can still feel his hard length pressing against her thigh. In the matter of a moment, she makes her choice, flipping them around so that he’s locked beneath her.
“Clarke—”
“Lie still for me,” she parrots him, a smirk playing on her lips. Though he rolls his eyes at her, they’re sparking with bright amusement, and that makes her feel strangely proud.
Unwilling to waste any time, she makes a quick work of his belt, pants and boxers. Once his erection is freed of its confines, his jaw slackens due to the much-needed relief. She thinks about the uncontrolled sounds that he made while eating her out, how much he clearly loved it.
Without warning, she curls her hand around his length. He inhales sharply, his eyes fluttering shut. While he isn’t looking at her, she places her hands on his muscled sternum for support and sinks down on him, refusing to think much about it. Still, the burn is immediate as her walls stretch to accommodate him, but he moans out loud, inadvertently urging her on.
“You don’t have to do this,” he breathes, so she thrusts hard to prove a point. The ghost of another genuine smile grazes Bellamy’s lips as his hands envelop her waist, keeping her steady while she searches for the perfect rhythm.
After a minute, she finds it.
Unsurprisingly, he likes it rough, and she fucks him with no trace of shame, a broken moan tumbling from her lips every time he hits the sweet spot deep inside her. His calloused fingertips dig into the dimples of her spine, his breath emerging in ragged puffs. For the first time since landing on the ground, Clarke feels powerful.
“You’re so quiet, Bellamy,” she teases. “You’re not used to being in this position?”
His hot stare burns into her, makes her heart pound faster. Just as her teeth meet her bottom lip, he cants his hips, thrusting up into her so hard that she chokes on her next breath. “I want you to feel this in the morning.” His words stick to the heavy air between them.
Clarke bends cup his sharp jaw; it nearly cuts her fingertips. Without responding, she licks some sweat off his throat, feels his Adam’s apple bob under her tongue. Curious to see how it will affect him, she bites a little at the shell of his ear. He shudders, releasing a harsh breath against the column of her neck.
“You like this, don’t you? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret.”
It’s this whisper and a shallow thrust that bring him over the edge.
When she awakens the next morning, the sheets next to her are empty, though not yet cold. Instead of dwelling on the weird feeling that rises in her chest at Bellamy’s absence, Clarke throws her clothes back on.
She better return to the Dropship before anything terrible happens. Sure, they banished Murphy last night, but — in some way, even after everything — he was the least of their problems.
As she treads through the woods alone, her thoughts drift to Bellamy. If it weren’t for the dull ache lingering between her thighs, she’d be convinced that last night was some sort of fever dream. She fucked the man that she’s supposed to be leading with, and she didn’t even pause to consider the consequences.
Damn it.
After a few minutes of walking, she comes by a river. In the back of her mind, she reminds herself of the monsters who speared Jasper through the chest on their first day here, because they could be lurking anywhere. Still, the exhaustion is clouding her mind and the beauty of the sun rays hitting the surface of the water, making it gleam like gold, is enticing.
At the edge of the water, she crouches to wash her face. It’s refreshing like nothing else, and as she turns her head back up she’s awake enough to notice that Bellamy is standing a few feet away, at the other side of the bank.
“Hey!” she shouts, watching him raise his arm. “I thought you’d gone back to camp. What the hell are you doing?”
Because the river isn’t very wide, she can tell that he’s holding a radio in his hand. “Where’d you get that?” she asks, stepping through the shallow water to get to him. Quickly, she notices that his jaw is clenched and his dark eyes are flickering nervously.
“I found it. I think it belongs to the Grounders.”
He’s lying. It’s obvious when he doesn’t return her gaze. To prevent him from turning away, Clarke grabs the edge of his sleeve. “This looks like the radios they use on the Ark.”
“It’s not. We need to get rid of it,” he presses, clutching the radio in his hand as though he’s afraid that she’ll tear it from his grasp.
Feeling hot frustration rise through her chest, she crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him. “Get rid of it? Just like the wrist—” Oh. Without further inquiry, she makes the connection. After all, this is the guy who made hungry kids trade their wristbands for the chance of having dinner.
(Forget last night.)
This is the guy who wants everyone on the Ark to think they’re dead.
“Where’s the shuttle? Did it crash?”
He hesitates for a long minute, at first matching her resolute gaze, but the emotion in his eyes soon transforms, softening them. Looking away for a moment, he bites his bottom lip. “Yeah. She’s hurt, the pilot.”
For some reason, there’s a broken sort of edge to his voice that makes it seem as if he’s pleading with her — but she doesn’t know why he would.
“Well, then let’s go find her. See if she needs medical attention.”
“Clarke… I have to—”
“Come on, Bellamy. The longer we stay here, the more danger she’s in.”
Somehow, she convinces him to go with her. As they walk, she keeps a close eye on him to make sure that he doesn’t do anything stupid, like run off. Last night opened her up to a different side of Bellamy, one that had been obscured until then, but now it appears as if they’re back to where they started.
In the end, sex doesn’t change anything. Not when it doesn’t mean anything.
They’ve been walking for a while when she sees it: A small spaceship, still smoking a little. Broken shards of glass are scattered on the forest floor in between the dried leaves, and Clarke’s heat begins to pound in her throat.
What if they’re too late?
Despite Bellamy’s loud protests, she runs up to the ship. Even though she’s not sure why, knowing that he’s right behind her, holding onto her arm makes her feel more at ease. But nothing explodes when they break the door open. There’s a pretty woman in the only seat, and she’s very much alive yet bleeding from a nasty cut on her forehead.
A single glance at the name tag on her space suit tells Clarke that the pilot’s name is Raven Reyes.
“I made it?” is the first thing she asks.
Smiling, Clarke reaches her hand out to help Raven out of her seat, and she’s about to take it when her brown eyes settle on Bellamy.
“I’ve seen you before. God, I wish your aim was better.”
Turning her attention to her co-leader, Clarke forgets about helping the woman out of the ship, but she manages it just fine by herself. Still talking to Bellamy, Raven adds, “You would’ve done us all a favor—why do you have my radio?”
“Bellamy, what is she talking about?”
Smirking, Raven turns her attention to Clarke. “Your boyfriend shot Chancellor Jaha. Didn’t kill him, though, but nice try.”
“He’s not dead?” Suddenly, Bellamy looks terrified, his eyes wide. When Raven shakes her head, Clarke senses him tense up next to her. Reaching out, she places her hand on his forearm, not sure when comforting him became her first instinct.
“Hey, look at me,” she tries, tugging at his sleeve, but he won’t budge. “We’ll figure something out.”
Ignoring her, Bellamy shifts his jaw as he hands the radio to Raven. “Here. Tell them we’re alive.” Clearly wondering why he stole it in the first place, the dark-haired woman eyes him in suspicion for a moment before finally turning her gaze skyward.
“I dreamed it would smell like this,” she says, spinning around, her arms outstretched. “Wait, is this rain?”
“Welcome home,” Clarke replies and pretends that she doesn’t hear Bellamy scoff. As kids, they all dreamt of feeling the sun hitting their faces, smelling the trees and hearing the leaves crush under their boots. As it turns out, though, the ground is more of a nightmare than a dream.
Who would’ve thought?
The walk back to camp would’ve been a nice opportunity to talk to Bellamy about Jaha if Raven didn’t keep pestering him about it, causing him to be on edge.
“Hey, shooter! Why did you steal my radio? Are you afraid he’ll kill you?”
“Shut up,” he snarls, rounding on her. “I had to shoot him. I was ordered.”
Huh? Although Clarke knows that Bellamy was a cadet for some time on the Ark, assassinating the chancellor isn’t exactly a part of the usual training, so the real question is: Which one of the officials wants their leader dead? Before she can ask, Raven does it for her, “By whom?”
“I’ll tell you when hell freezes over.”
It’s quiet the rest of the journey back to camp. At the gates, they’re met by Finn who nearly drops a stack of firewood when he lays eyes on Clarke, or perhaps...
“Finn!” Raven exclaims, leaping into his arms. When they embrace and their lips meet, Clarke takes a step back in surprise, bumping right into Bellamy’s solid chest. He presses his hand to her shoulder, gives it a gentle squeeze.
Somehow, she feels a pang of guilt in her chest watching Finn with the pretty pilot, knowing that he flirted with her (and a handful of other girls) during their first days on the ground. Apparently, Spacewalker is a cheater, and that makes Raven too good for him.
Tearing her eyes off the lovers, Clarke turns to Bellamy. “Hey, we should talk later.”
“I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” he says, “We fucked, that’s it.”
She bites her lower lip at the insinuation. “Not about that. About what we’ll do when they all come down.”
“I won’t be here then.”
Before she can protest, Bellamy slides past her and heads towards the woodwork station. Frowning, she watches him walk away, hoping she’ll catch him after dinner. Until then, they both have a lot of work to catch up on after missing most of the commotion following the terrible events of last night.
Once the sky has been draped in its dark, starry veil, they roast wild boar over the fire and eat it alongside crispy slices of apple. It’s delicious, making Clarke’s stomach rumble in gratitude. Though it took some time and a lot of training, the hunting parties are becoming more skilled, and their trips are much more fruitful now — to everyone’s excitement.
As she snacks on the rest of her apple, Clarke feels a heavy pair of eyes on her. When she looks up, she finds Bellamy staring at her, the flames flickering in his dark eyes. She doesn’t have the time to react, however, because he stands, brushing the dirt off his knees and walks away.
Maybe, she tells herself, just maybe…
Then he glances at her over his shoulder, and she knows.
Trying not to act suspicious, Clarke gives the last two slices of her apple to Fox, then trails behind her co-leader, making sure to keep a safe distance until they’re out of sight.
When he slips into his tent, she follows without a second thought, but once she’s in there and he’s standing in front of her the atmosphere grows thick. “What do you want, Bellamy? I thought you didn’t wanna talk.”
Briefly, he looks away, biting his lip. “I lied.”
Oh.
Releasing a rough sigh, he sits down on the makeshift bed. He looks exhausted , his shoulders slumped and the frown etched onto his face. Only now, it becomes apparent that the softness in his expression that she witnessed last night was a fleeting thing, caused by momentary relief.
With every second that passes in silence as he looks at her, Clarke’s urge to fidget grows stronger. He seems to be fixated on something, and yet she can’t decipher what it is. It’s making her feel antsy. “Then talk, for god’s sake. Stop staring at me.”
“Can I braid your hair?”
… What?
Out of all the things he could’ve said, this is definitely the least expected, especially since her hair is already braided. She put it back up when she started her shift in the medical tent. Incredulous, she asks, “Why do you want to do that?”
“Please just—it’s relaxing for me, okay? It would help me tell you everything.”
Remembering the sheer fear she recognized in his eyes earlier, Clarke nods, “Okay. If it helps.”
Then she sits down on the ground, in between his legs. Bellamy pulls the hair tie loose, and — to her surprise — brushes his fingers through the locks, slowly untangling them.
Suddenly, he’s talking, his voice a low rumble, “Shumway was the one who gave me the gun. He knew how desperate I was to be on the ship, to be with my little sister, and he took advantage of that. He could get me aboard. All I had to do was murder Jaha for him.”
Clarke closes her eyes, feeling his fingers braiding her hair neatly. “You knew they would kill you for it. If they came down.”
“And now they will,” he sighs, tugging a loose strand behind her ear. “But don’t worry about me, Princess. By the time they land, I’ll be miles from here.”
At that, she turns, almost ruining all of his work, but he manages to keep his hold on her hair despite the sudden movement. “No, you won’t. You can’t just leave, Bellamy. We’ll think of something.” Before he can retort, a bright idea strikes her mind. “Maybe if you tell Jaha about Shumway, he’ll pardon you. To be fair, you’re not the one who wanted him dead.”
“He floated my mother, Clarke. Of course I wanted him dead.”
“Okay, but you didn’t plan the murder. You didn’t set it up.”
Honestly, she’s certain that a lot of people have wanted — maybe even plotted — to kill the chancellor. Even though she hasn’t had those ideas herself, Clarke can’t say that she blames people for hating Jaha, not when he’s the one who floated her dad for treason, who sent her to the Skybox.
If they hadn’t sent the delinquents to the ground, she would probably be dead by now.
Now that he’s finished the braid, Bellamy puts it in place with the hair tie. “No, I didn’t. But if I tell him about Shumway, Shumway will make sure I never say anything to anyone ever again.”
“You don’t know that.”
Bellamy groans. “I do know. Maybe if you had done it, they’d think twice about murder, but stop pretending that they give a damn about my Factory Station ass.”
Although his insult rings true, Clarke winces at it. Biting back the apology that’s resting on her tongue, she clenches her shaking fists. “I won’t let them touch you,” she says, only to be taken aback by the fierceness of the statement.
Bellamy doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but then she feels his index finger brush the side of her neck, a featherlight touch that threatens to make her shiver. “What are you gonna do, huh? Assassinate them before they can get to me?”
“Yes. If I have to.”
Her heart leaps, because it’s true. Swallowing hard, she twists her body slightly to look at him. For a moment, she swears that she sees pride flicker in his eyes, but the dim light in the tent makes it hard to tell. As their gazes connect, he replies, “You’re out of your damn mind.”
“Maybe.”
Bellamy runs a palm along his face. “I don’t want you to do anything stupid. Not for me.”
And just like that, she’s had enough, the frustration spilling over the edges of her chest as she pushes herself to her feet, hoping to tower over him when she shouts, “Keeping you alive isn’t stupid!”
He rises to meet her, and she sees his jaw twitch. Then he grabs her elbow. “Be quiet. You’ll wake everyone up.” Though the warning emerges from behind his gritted teeth, there’s a sudden softness painting his eyes.
Still trembling a little in desperation, Clarke makes it known that she isn’t done. “You think I can do this without you?”
This seems to quell his anger. Bellamy cups her cheek, his brow furrowed. “Of course you can. You just don’t want to, and I—” Cutting himself off, he swallows hard. “I won’t leave. But you’re not killing anyone for me, got it?”
As relief surges in her ribcage, causing her heart rate to slow, she nods.
The promise hangs in the air between them; perhaps to solidify it, Bellamy presses a lingering kiss to her jawline.
As October approaches with rapid steps, the mornings grow colder. Despite the chill around her, Clarke just couldn’t resist the picturesque view of the lake as the weak sun shines, struggling to overpower the thick blanket of fog. She picks one of the small, periwinkle flowers in the grass by her hand, tries to smile at it, appreciate the beauty, but the ache in her bones makes it impossible.
She’s so tired.
“Why aren’t you drawing this?” a familiar voice says behind her. Looking over her shoulder, Clarke locks eyes with Bellamy as he walks towards her, his curly hair still tousled from sleep.
“No inspiration,” she replies, turning her attention back to the lake to hide the tears clouding her eyes. In truth, she hasn’t wanted to draw since Wells died. Her hands are far too shaky to create art, struggling under the weight of grief.
Something soft and warm is draped around her shoulders: a blanket.
When Bellamy sits down next to her, she almost smiles. Almost.
For a minute, they’re silent, just admiring the view together for no apparent reason. Soon, however, Clarke senses his eyes resting on her. “We’re okay, right? After…”
Her eyes widen at the near-reference. In the last six days, she’s come to realize that — yes, while sleeping with her co-leader was definitely a thing that happened, they don’t talk about it. So why does he bring it up now?
“Yeah, we’re good,” she tells him, gathering the courage to return his gaze. Still, she feels the need to add, if only for the sake of emphasis, “It was just sex. I know that.”
If his arched eyebrows are anything to go by, Bellamy isn’t convinced. With a sigh, he pulls an apple from his backpack and hands it to her.
“Then why are you avoiding me?” is his next question, and she has to take a large bite to delay her answer as much as possible, because now the tears are stinging in her eyes, blurring her vision. Sure, the fruit is juicy and crisp, but the taste is sour on her tongue.
God, she wishes he would stop staring at her. “It’s not just you. It’s everyone.”
Although she bites down hard on her lower lip, drawing blood, she can’t keep the tears at bay anymore. Ruthless, they spill over her eyes to race down her cold cheeks. As if that flood isn’t enough, there are sobs lined up in her throat, causing her breath to hitch.
“Shit,” he murmurs, but she barely hears it. “I’m sorry. Hey ...” Bellamy brushes the next tear off her face with his thumb, to no avail. All that soft action does is pull the first broken sob from her throat, and yet he doesn’t freak out. Though the sadness almost overpowers her senses, she feels his arms wrap around her and draw her closer until her nose meets his shoulder.
The scent of his skin is soothing, as is his hand rubbing slow circles on her back.
“I hated him, Bellamy. He let me hate him, and then he—now he’s dead. ”
As soon as she’s said it, she feels bad, because how do you even respond to something like that? But somehow, Bellamy knows just what to say. “He’s dead, but he isn’t gone.”
Afterwards, once all of her tears have dried out, she lets Bellamy lead her back to the morning campfire, where Bree is stirring blueberry-and-walnut porridge over the flames. As he wraps the blanket tighter around Clarke, she looks at them for a few long seconds before finally turning her attention back to the breakfast.
Suddenly, Jasper creeps up behind Bree, unintentionally startling her. She nearly drops the spoon.
“Hey, did you see Octavia last night?” Bellamy asks, frowning at the young man who was about to take a bite of his apple. Now, he gulps, swaying nervously on the spot.
“Uh, no. I don’t—I don’t think she came back.”
Clarke senses Bellamy’s hands flex on her shoulders. “Didn’t come back from where?” Unable to mask the immediate rush of anxiety, he looks as if he’s about to bite poor Jasper’s head off, so Clarke turns around on the log.
“Relax. I’m sure she’ll be back later. She’s probably chasing butterflies or something.”
When he inhales sharply, she thinks that he’s about to start screaming at her, but instead he deflates, suddenly looking tired. Then he mutters, only for her to hear, “Does she really hate the sight of me that much?” and her heart clenches in her chest at the pained edge to those words.
She lets her hand rest on top of his until he pulls away. “You’re cold,” he says. “Get warm. We’ll organize the next hunting party later.”
To her relief, the hot breakfast is soothing, and even though it’s a little burnt at the bottom the sweetness of the blueberries is just what she needed. Once she’s eaten, her body feels ten pounds lighter and she stands, knowing that they are mysterious herbs in the medical tent waiting to be examined and catalogued.
Before she can walk away, however, Bree grabs her wrist. “I know it’s none of my business, but are you and Bellamy…?”
She shakes her head. “There’s nothing between us.”
Later that afternoon, she’s forced to eat her words. Bellamy enters the medical tent, and her breath hitches in her throat at the sight of him: the sweat that he’s worked up during the day is making his shirt cling to his abs and biceps. Clarke’s mouth goes dry, so she has to force herself to look away, distract herself by washing her hands in the makeshift sink.
“What happened to you?” she asks, assuming that some sort of injury has brought him here. It wouldn’t surprise her, not with the amount of strain that he’s been putting on his body lately, hardly allowing himself a single break.
But then he settles right behind her, his strong hands gripping the sink to box her in. Her breathing quickens, which she tries to conceal by sighing, “Why are you here, Bellamy? Don’t you have spears to carve?”
“I do,” he admits, the words ghosting hotly over the back of her neck. “But first, I need to know something… Did you tell Bree about us?”
His voice drops into gruffness, and she has to wield all of her willpower in order not to whimper as desire suddenly licks up her veins like flames. Somehow, she manages to keep her voice neutral when she replies, “There is no us.”
At that, he hums, making goosebumps form on the skin below her hairline. “There isn’t? What about our secret?” he whispers, letting his teeth graze the back of her ear. The memory of her doing it to him that night in the bunker bleeds through her mind, conquers it.
“Bellamy— ”
“That’s right,” he all but growls, placing his hands at the top of her thighs; embarrassingly, this touch alone is enough to make her knees buck slightly. When she releases a low moan, he presses a kiss to the curve of her neck. It’s not enough, and a pathetic whine escapes her lips. At the sound, he rolls his hips against her ass — just once, but it still has her panting.
“Nothing between us, huh?”
He almosts sounds… hurt. At the very least he’s offended. Slowly, Bellamy runs his hand up the length of her spine, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. When it stops at her neck, her heart leaps in her chest.
He’s going to bend her over the sink, fuck her until she takes the words back.
But at the next second, the sound of the tent flap being pushed aside has him jolting backwards, and she nearly whimpers at the loss of his body heat.
“Clarke? Is he bothering you?” she hears Finn ask, his voice soaked in suspicion. As she battles the frustration rising in her chest, she straight up considers telling Bellamy to ignore the intruder, do whatever the hell he wants with her.
Still, he doesn’t seem to want that. “We were just talking, Spacewalker.”
Finally turning to look at Finn, Clarke asks, “What’s the issue?” She’s trying not to sound as annoyed as she is, but the scarlet tint that creeps up his neck afterwards tells her that she didn’t quite succeed.
“Uh,” Finn starts, scratching the back of his ear. “Fox is throwing up. Again.”
For the past two days, some of the kids have suffered from food poisoning, but there isn’t some miracle cure for it. Because of this, Clarke has told everyone to have lots of water and encouraged them to take breaks from working every once in a while if they experience symptoms. Finn knows about this, which tells her that it wasn’t a medical emergency that brought him here.
Much like Bellamy. The difference is: She doesn’t want Finn here.
“You know I can’t do anything. If there’s nothing else...”
“Actually—” Finn starts, but he cuts himself off when she raises her eyebrows. “Nevermind. I’ll see you at dinner.” Before he walks out, he throws an intense glare over his shoulder at Bellamy who doesn’t seem at all intimidated.
Leaning in, he whispers, a smirk playing on his lips, “He won’t see you at dinner.”
That’s right. While everyone else is gathered around the fire, Clarke is on her hands and knees in the woods, trying to muffle her cries as Bellamy pounds into her from behind. He’s got a firm grip on her thighs, keeping her steady in spite of how the force of his thrusts pushes her forward.
She digs her fingers into the soft dirt, bites her lower lip to keep from crying out. As filthy as it is, being fucked by him like this, it takes no more than his name falling off her tongue, a strained whimper, for him to pause.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs, caressing her lower back. “You need a moment to catch your breath?”
“I’m fine,” she says, insistent. If there’s anything she’d hate, it would be him thinking that she can’t take it. “Come on.”
Without warning, he pulls out, leaving her feeling empty. Her thighs are quivering, the heels of her palms are aching. “What did I say about rushing me?”
I’ll take as much time as I want, Princess.
Before she can think of anything to say, Bellamy has wrapped a strong arm around her waist and pulled her up so that her back is pressed to his chest. She can sense his ribcage rise and fall with his heavy breath. Pressing a hard kiss to the back of her ear, he pushes into her again, slower this time, though his thrusts are just as deep.
“Bellamy.”
“Sssh,” he whispers, thrusting into her slowly. At this torturous pace, the strain in her thighs becomes more apparent somehow. “I’ve got you.”
Clarke has no idea how close he is, but she has been lingering at the edge for at least five minutes, and he must sense that. When she thinks about the possibility of him leaving her hanging, dread settles in the pit of her stomach, but the fear proves to be unfounded, because seconds later he brings his hand in between her legs to rub at her clit.
Pleasure jolts through her immediately.
“I know you’re close,” is what he pants into her ear. Then he shifts, changing the angle a little until he finds that sweet spot inside her. Once he hits it, he must feel that she’s about to let go, because he places his free hand over her mouth to muffle her loud cry.
After a single, lazy thrust, Bellamy follows her over the edge. He groans against the crook of her neck, breathing heavily. Then he drops a chaste kiss to her clothed shoulder, probably too caught up in pleasure to stop himself from doing so.
Now that it’s over, Clarke can hear the low chatter of the camp, the crackling fire. Bellamy’s still nestled inside her, breathing hotly onto her throat. Swallowing, she reaches back to run her fingers through his hair as she winds down.
Eventually, he’s forced to leave her, and they adjust their clothes. Because her legs are still shaking slightly, Clarke has to lean against a tree trunk to keep steady. Maybe she should feel dirty, pushing aside her responsibilities to fuck her co-leader in the woods, but her body is pumped full of wonderful adrenaline, making her feel alive.
Frowning, Bellamy rubs some grime off her cheekbone. “Let’s head back. Get some food before it’s all gone.”
When they return to the Dropship camp, everyone else has finished their dinner and are hanging out in groups by the lake or in the tents. Luckily, there is some roast deer and wild mushrooms left for them, and her mouth waters when Bellamy brings her a plateful. Then he sits down next to her, his knee resting against hers.
They eat in comfortable silence, surrounded by the small sparks of the fire. Clarke raises her head to look at the bright flames, her mind becoming foggy, but she’s pulled from the trance by Bellamy’s hand on her shoulder. “You alright?”
“Yeah, I just… zoned out for a second.”
Even though she isn’t looking at him, she can sense the deep frown on his face when he replies, “That’s not normal. How long has it been since you’ve slept?”
Putting her plate aside, Clarke looks at palms that now carry small scrapes. “I don’t know,” she sighs, aware of how bad it sounds, and yet she can’t bring herself to care because she knows that nothing is going to change the current reality; sleep doesn’t come easy, if it comes at all.
“You don’t know? Clarke, that’s—”
“What do you want me to do?” she nearly hisses, but the gloom in her chest makes the words weak. “I can’t. My head won’t stop! I—I can’t find peace.” Out of nowhere, tears gather in her eyes, but she can’t find enough will within herself to care about hiding them this time.
The corner of Bellamy’s mouth twitches, his brow furrowed. For a second, he turns away, looks at the embers rise through the night. But then he turns back. “I’ll make sure you get some sleep. Come on.”
There’s no question hiding behind the words, not a hint of uncertainty. His dark eyes resolute, he grabs her hand and walks with her to her tent. Once they’re inside, he frowns at her. “Take your clothes off.”
“Sex won’t—”
“We’re not having sex,” he says, growing impatient. “Just take your clothes off. Keep your panties on, though.”
Not in the mood to argue right now, Clarke complies. When she’s left standing in front of him, almost naked, she bites her lower lip and watches him tug his dark blue Henley off. To her sheer surprise, he hands it to her. “This is way more comfortable than the one you have. You can borrow it.” Despite his insistence, she opens her mouth to say something, but he adds, “I don’t sleep in it anyway.”
She pulls it on and is immediately struck by the softness of the fabric. As cheesy as it sounds, it almost feels like she’s being hugged. A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, causing his eyes to sparkle at her. “Nice, right?”
“Yeah. But…” the reason why she usually wears her pants to bed becomes clear when the cold breeze sneaks into her tent, leaving goosebumps all over her legs. “I’m gonna freeze to death.”
“No, you’re not. Get in bed.”
Skeptical, Clarke crawls beneath the thin covers, her eyes holding onto his. Then, he makes her throw all of her expectations out of the window, because he follows her. Because of the tight space, it takes them a minute to settle comfortably next to each other. “Body heat,” he clarifies. “You’re the doctor, Princess. You know it works.”
“But why—”
“I’m doing this because you deserve to be well-rested. Our people need you to be, too.”
Once he’s made this flawless argument, Clarke can think of nothing more to say. Instead of demanding that she relax, Bellamy rubs her shoulder soothingly. His lips are resting near the crown of her hair, his ribcage rising and falling against hers.
God, he’s so warm. She can feel the heat radiating off his body, coaxing her mind into a state of blissful relaxation; it makes her feel lighter, for some reason, as though the painful tension has finally left her shoulders. Relishing in the sensation, Clarke lets her eyelids flutter closed.
The last thing she senses before drifting off is his lips against her temple.
And the last thought that enters her mind is, he makes me feel safe.