Chapter Text
I.
You up? I have wine ;)
Clarke stares at horror at her phone, the bright yellow of her chat bubble almost mocking her.
Fuck.
The words sound even more cringe-worthy now that they exist in writing. And that winky face… that's going to be her cause of death, she just knows it. Lexa might have ignored it, or at worst thought it was a cute attempt, but Bellamy—Bellamy is going to be downright insufferable.
This is what happens after too many glasses of wine, alone on an empty stomach with no one to talk her out of questionable decisions at 1 a.m. Except—it’s just gotten so much worse. She can't even talk her way out of it. Of all people, Bellamy knows exactly what this text is, and he's never going to let her live it down.
Maybe he won’t see it right away, Clarke reasons. Maybe he’s out. It’s a Saturday night after all. He’s got better things to do than—
Three little dots appear on her screen, in the answering blue of a chat bubble.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
Five minutes later, Clarke is still clutching her phone, staring at those stupid little dots and wondering what the hell is going on. Bellamy hasn’t sent a single word yet, but she knows he’s seen the message, and that kills her.
Suddenly it rings, her current music obsession blaring through the room and making her drop the phone in surprise.
Oh don't you dare look back
Just keep your eyes on me
I said you're holding back
She said shut up and dance with me
She stares at it, frozen, until it cuts off halfway through the ooohhh-OOHH .
Then there’s a small chirp, signaling a text. Hesitantly, she checks.
Pick up.
Before her brow can scrunch, the phone rings again, Bellamy’s face showing up on the screen with that stupid smirking picture she’d taken last winter. That grey coat had already looked unfairly good, but it'd gotten better when she started a snowball fight and finally pulled a smile from him on camera.
She answers before she can change her mind. “Hey.”
“Did you mean it?”
“I—what?”
“Did you mean it?” He repeats urgently. “That text.”
“I… uh,” Clarke fumbles, wanting to die. “Sort of,” she finally says. “It just—it was a mistake, alright? I meant to send it to Lexa but I sent it to you by accident because I forgot you changed your name in my contacts list.”
Bellamy is silent. It’s unnerving.
“I mean who fucking calls themselves ‘Lava Lips’ anyways,” she rambles on. “It would have just defaulted to Lexa, she’s the only L name in here, so really if you think about it this is kind of your fault—”
“Clarke.”
She slumps. “Yeah.”
“You really were gonna text your ex for a booty call?”
“It’s not—” she begins, then decides, fuck it. “Well who else would I call? I just—I’m tired and maybe a little tipsy and just… it’s lonely. And my vibrator broke.”
“Jesus, Clarke.” The strangled tone in his low voice makes her shiver for reasons unknown. Then, unexpectedly, he says, “Well, you can always call me, you know.”
“To complain about how lonely and horny I am?” She says dryly. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what you want to hear on a Saturday night.”
“No, not that,” he says carefully, sounding odd now. “I mean, yeah, you can vent, but, what I meant was— you know what, forget it. It’s fine.”
Clarke sits up. “Hang on. Were you—are you offering to come over?”
“I mean, if you’d asked me to, I would have. That’s all.” He sounds vaguely embarrassed, which is confusing and endearing all at once.
“Why?”
“Because, being alone sucks sometimes,” he says simply. “And you don’t need all of Lexa’s bullshit anyways. You got enough of that the first go,” he adds, a bit of anger creeping through. “If it was me—well, I mean, it’s a friend helping out a friend for a night. No weird shit.”
It’s really appealing. Like, embarrassingly so. And that’s in large part due to the fact that Bellamy is the one that’s offering.
Clarke really does not want to analyze that right now.
“That does sound better,” she admits.
“So… are you asking?”
She blushes even though no one’s around, burying her face into the pillow for a few seconds. Finally she says, “Yeah. I’m asking.”
“Okay. I’ll see you in ten.”
Clarke looks at herself in the mirror. Her hair sits in a messy bun atop her head, half the strands already falling out. She’s in old paint-splattered shorts and a purple tank top—not really dressed to receive. But, in all fairness, they’re probably coming off soon, she reasons. So there’s not much point in changing.
Ten minutes later, Bellamy’s standing in her doorway looking unfairly handsome in a maroon sweater and jeans. She wishes she had changed, then dismisses the thought instantly, because changing would have meant she was looking forward to this—to him.
“So, can I come in? Or did you change your mind already?” Bellamy smirks. “Because I gotta tell you, princess—”
Clarke’s not entirely proud of throwing herself at him, but, well, he needed to shut up anyways, and she really didn’t want either of them to somehow talk their way out of this, because now that he’s here she realizes just how much she wants this to happen.
Bellamy stumbles back with a grunt of surprise, hands automatically flying to her waist. His mouth catches up to his brain a second later, and soon his lips are moving against hers, warm and hungry. Unsurprisingly, he's a great kisser, and it doesn't take long for them to settle into the push and pull of a rhythm that feels oddly comfortable and oddly them. Clarke presses closer, her tongue eagerly seeking out his and absently wondering why they haven't done this before.
Bellamy moves them inside, kicking the door shut and at the same time sliding his hands to her ass. She takes the hint and jumps up, sighing when his big hands wrap around her thighs. Twisting her hands into his curls, Clarke kisses him anywhere she can reach while he stumbles to her room. His mouth tastes like cinnamon. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he sucks a trail down her neck, pausing to pull her hair loose from its bun and threading his fingers through her curls in a way that briefly makes her wonder if he’s thought about this before. Then his mouth travels to the skin behind her ear, and she stops thinking for several minutes.
”I thought you would have moves,” he teases, nosing at a strap of her top.
“I have moves,” Clarke argues. I just can’t remember them when your mouth is doing—that.
She gets some measure of vindication when all he does is stare after she strips off her shirt.
“Bellamy,” she grins. “Any day now.”
He swears under his breath, then splays his hands wide on her back as he leans forward, tugging a nipple into his warm mouth and making her moan at the burst of pleasure that seems to go straight to her cunt. Something like approval rumbles in his throat and he sucks a little harder, teeth scraping against the bud.
“Fuck,” she moans, gripping his shoulders. “Bellamy, please, I’m—”
He lowers her to the mattress, following to hover on his elbows. “What do you need?”
She’s torn between everything she wants—his hands, his mouth, his cock.
Bellamy tugs off her shorts and underwear all at once, then rests a hand on her closed knees. “This isn’t one and done, you know,” he says, smiling faintly. “I told you I’d stay all night and I’m going to, unless you say otherwise. So,” he leans closer and sucks on her bottom lip, “what do you need, Clarke?”
“Mouth,” she manages. “Please, use your mouth.”
His lips curve against hers and he kisses her again, deep and dirty, before shifting down her body. Her legs part at the gentle pressure of his hands. She already knew she was desperately wet; now Bellamy knows, too.
“Shit,” Bellamy breathes. She thinks he wants to say something else, but then he just licks up her slit. Clarke cries out, a hand fisted in the sheets and the other in his hair as he dips his tongue inside her, holding her hips down sure and steady. She flushes to her toes at the sounds he’s making, and when he catches her watching him, something wicked and triumphant flashes in his eyes. Before she can begin to figure out what that might mean, he’s sucked her clit into his mouth, and she’s calling to him, hips jerking against his face as her orgasm hits with a force that drowns out everything else.
When she opens her eyes again, Bellamy’s lying beside her, a hand lightly running along her side. “Okay?”
“You know it was better than that.” She gulps more air into her lungs and reaches for him. “Why are you still dressed?” She questions against his mouth.
He huffs out a laugh. “Why don’t you do something about it?”
Clarke pushes him to his back, settling atop the hard bulge in his pants and rocking her hips. He bucks out of instinct, hands clutching at her waist. Smirking, she leans down to kiss him, then proceeds to get him just as naked as her.
If one night is all she gets, she doesn’t plan to sleep at all.
II.
They don’t talk about it.
They don’t talk about the fact that he’s had his head between her thighs for more hours than they actually slept. They don’t talk about how her nails left scrapes along his shoulders, on his back. Or that they ordered pizza and watched Broad City on her laptop until she laughed so hard she forgot all about being lonely. Or how they woke up tangled together and each pretended to sleep a little longer just because.
They don’t talk about it at all—but it doesn’t mean Clarke stops thinking about it.
Every time she sees his name pop up on her phone, her heart does a stupid little flip. She starts ordering flavored lattes just trying to find the taste of him again. When he gives her that infuriating smirk in a room full of people, she considers jumping him on the spot. And on the occasions that they are hanging out alone—which are often, since he’s one of her best friends—she continues to argue with him while pretending not to look at his hands or his shoulders or the spot on his waist where she now knows there’s a sizable scar from that emergency gallbladder surgery that nearly gave her a heart attack two years ago.
Then, just when she thinks she’s gotten quite good at pretending—Bellamy gets stood up.
It’s the dumbest thing in the world. Who wouldn’t want him? Clarke wonders. And yet, here he is, lounging next to her on the couch and pretending not to pout while she sits a little too close and twists the cap off her third beer. Or is it fourth? She’s not sure.
Bellamy nudges her knee with his. “Stop drinking all my beer.”
“Fuck you, it’s my beer that I leave here because I hate yours.”
“No it’s not. I bought this beer because I knew you were coming and I drank all of yours already.”
She looks over in surprise. He’s staring at the TV, one arm thrown over his head and his expression inscrutable, but she sees his jaw tighten momentarily and knows it was a slip. That’s the thing about Bellamy—he’s not the grand gesture kind of guy. He’s the one that you might miss if you’re not looking closely enough.
“Emma’s an idiot,” she says.
His eyes dart to hers, lingering, then back to the TV. Clarke sets her beer on the table and shifts so that she’s flush against him on the couch. He’s slumped so far down that his head is near her jaw, so when she turns to the right her lips meet his soft curls. He looks up through his lashes, unsure, and she knows what’s going to happen before it does. Then his hands are in her hair and she’s scrambling onto his lap, mouths meeting with urgency.
“Just for tonight,” she gets out, biting his earlobe.
“Tonight,” he agrees, and stands up with her wrapped around him, making it to his bed in record time. She tugs off his shirt and sets her mouth to his chest immediately, tracing the hard planes of his torso and relishing the harsh breaths leaving his mouth. Bellamy seems to have lost all restraint, just holding her hips so tightly she can feel his fingertips creating imprints. She scrapes her teeth over the jut of his hipbone, grinning up at him when he jerks and curses loudly.
“Clarke,” he rasps, and oh how she likes that, “get back up here.”
She does, but not before unbuttoning his jeans so she can sneak her hand in and palm him through his briefs. He moans brokenly into her mouth, fingers flexing on her waistline. When she pulls back again, she removes her shirt and bra, but stays out of his reach. Bellamy watches her scoot back down the bed, raising his hips to let her pull off his pants and briefs. His eyes close when her hand wraps around his thick length.
Grinning, Clarke leans down, letting her breasts brush against his cock ever so briefly before her tongue sneaks out for a taste.
“Jesus, princess,” Bellamy’s groan is loud in the room, fingers winding tightly into her hair. “Give a guy some warning.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Clarke hums and closes her lips around his cock. She’s been dying to do this again ever since she got a chance all those weeks ago. It’s kind of a huge, weird power trip—probably because it’s Bellamy writhing beneath her, for once not in control.
She feels him stutter and gasp as she takes more of him into her mouth, working the rest with her hand as she bobs up and down. The hand in her hair is a telltale guide to what he likes, and the sound of his uncontrolled pleasure turns her on beyond belief. In no time she feels his other hand grasp her shoulder in warning.
“I’m close,” he says tightly. She knows he expects her to pull off, because he’d all but yanked her off the last time, but right now she has other plans.
So she meets his gaze and sucks hard enough to hollow her cheeks, twisting her hand at the base of his cock. Bellamy’s eyes widen even as his hips pump harder, and the hand in her hair tightens until he comes with a groan, her name on his lips. His head falls back to the pillow, chest heaving. When she finally releases him with a wet pop, he pulls her up and crushes their lips together.
“You—shit,” he breathes, kissing her hard. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” she says. He flips them over, tugging her pants down and rubbing the heel of his hand over her damp panties as she bucks beneath him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, sinking a finger inside. Her muscles clench as she mewls helplessly into his neck. He slides it in and out almost treacherously slow, crooking it every so often and taking in her every reaction like it's the most important secret.
“More, Bell, come on,” she clutches at his shoulders, hips canting up desperately. He complies without a word, adding two more and covering her rising moans with his mouth until she comes.
Clarke stares up at the ceiling and takes deep breaths while Bellamy shuffles around, returning with a sweatshirt for her after he’s cleaned up. Then, to her surprise, he pulls her close to his chest, an arm solidly curled around her back.
She grins up at him in surprise. “Cuddle much?”
“Just shut up and sleep,” he says gruffly.
Emma is a fucking idiot, Clarke thinks right before she drifts off.
III.
Clarke charges into Bellamy’s apartment even before the door’s fully opened, heels clacking on the hardwood floors.
“Unbelievable,” she fumes, throwing her scarf to the side and sending her coat after it. “After all that nagging and shopping and lecturing, she expects that I’ll just sit there politely and take it? And the whole time she’s pretending like I knew, like it wasn’t a setup—”
“Clarke, hey,” Bellamy takes her shoulders. “Slow down. Start from the beginning. What did Abby do?”
She twists away, needing to move, even if it’s just in a circle. “I went to that stupid banquet. I let mom convince me it would be networking, nothing more.” Raking her hands through her hair, she laughs bitterly. “Her friend brought his son. You can guess where that was going. I mean, I even listened to all her bullshit this week, because I thought she was actually being helpful for once. And yet again, I’m a fucking fool. Just another warm body to be shown off—”
Bellamy steps in front of her pacing, hands framing her face as he pulls her to him. Clarke gasps as his tongue dives past her lips, and all her pent-up frustration transforms into need, pure and simple.
Somewhere deep down, she knows this is why she gave the cab driver his address instead of her own. She'd wondered if this would be his response. Wondered if he would know that this was the perfect outlet for her anger, fire matching fire, just like he seems to know so many things about her.
Her hands clutch at his hair, probably tighter than he deserves, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead he just presses her up against the wall, meeting the furor of her kisses. When he wedges a knee between her legs, she moans and grinds down, and his laugh is hot against her neck.
Without warning, Bellamy spins her to face the wall, dragging down the zipper of her dress. He drops kisses along her shoulder, down her arms, smiling at the goosebumps he leaves behind. Clarke wiggles her ass against him, rewarded by a low groan, and soon he’s on his knees to tug the dress off entirely, her heels following.
Then, for some reason, he stops.
Clarke looks down blearily to find him staring at her stockings—or, more accurately, the point where they stop halfway up her thighs and clip to her panties.
“Oh.” She turns a furious shade of red. “I—um, all the others have runs in them and mom was yelling at me to hurry, so I just—” She shrugs, staring at the ceiling. “I figured no one would know the difference.”
Bellamy just nods, looking a bit strained. And pretty turned on, if she’s reading him right, which she thinks she is. Biting her lip, she takes a shot in the dark.
“I bought them as a joke. Never ended up wearing them for anyone, though,” she says as casually as possible.
His eyes snap to hers, and that possessive glint is unmistakeable this time. Slowly, he traces each of the clasps with a finger, then follows it with his mouth, back and forth from the edge of her stocking to the crease of her hip, unhooking each when he’s done. By the time he comes to the last one Clarke is panting, one leg over his shoulder, fingers deep in his hair, urging him closer. She can feel his smirk against her skin, but she’s so fucking close she doesn’t even care, just doesn’t want him to stop ever.
He pulls back only to draw her underwear down her legs, tossing it aside, but he leaves the stockings on as he laves her cunt with his mouth, and she’s pretty sure she’s never seen anything hotter in her life. She curls over him as she comes, hips rocking against his mouth and her nails indenting his shoulders. Bellamy keeps licking at her until she puts a hand to his forehead, pushing back. He stands, kissing his way back to her mouth until she absolutely needs air again.
Still shaking, she twists and presses her forehead into the wall. “Your turn,” she says over her shoulder.
Bellamy draws a hand over his face, looking wrecked already. “You sure? Because we don’t have to—”
“Bellamy, are you going to fuck me or not?”
He’s crowding her in the next second, raising her hands above her head and pressing them against the wall. Clarke whimpers into her arm. If she was in a better state of mind, she might worry at how much that turned her on. But she’s not, so she just leans back as Bellamy licks the shell of her ear while simultaneously shoving his pants down, like he can’t stop touching her for even a second. He wraps a firm arm around her waist as she twists her head for a sloppy kiss, more teeth and spit than anything else, but her hand finds his hair to hold him close anyways. Then he’s squeezing her ass and sinking inside of her inch by inch, and she moans and drops her head to his shoulder.
It’s not gentle or slow—it’s exactly what she needs. The slap of flesh echoes in the apartment, loud and obscene. Turning her head for another kiss, she sees their reflection in the window, and the shock of watching him fuck her brings her nearly to the edge. Bellamy follows her gaze and smiles something wicked, drawing his hand lower and lower. Her lips part in a silent scream when he finds her clit, and when her orgasm hits she does scream, feeling him come undone with her.
Clarke sags against the wall, breathless. “I should wear these stockings more often,” she mumbles, and Bellamy laughs and kisses her cheek, almost tender.
He insists that she shower to “work off the stress”, and although she feels pretty damn zen already, she agrees anyways because she secretly hopes that means she can stay the night.
And when she sees his old sweats and t-shirt folded neatly on the toilet seat for her afterwards, she smiles, ignoring the fact that she's looking forward to his cuddling more than anything else.
IV.
Clarke props her feet up in Bellamy’s lap, stretching along the length of his couch. She’s never too proud to turn down one of his amazing foot rubs, especially after standing in heels for several hours at the career fair. Plus, now that she’s been on the receiving end of those hands in other ways, she kind of can’t help herself.
It doesn’t stop her from arguing, though.
“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says defiantly, reaching for more popcorn.
Bellamy arches an eyebrow. “And why is that?”
“Come on, seriously? Netflix and chill? That can’t be a thing.”
“Oh, but it is.”
She shoves him for his smugness, ignoring her own spark of jealousy. “What happened to just watching Netflix like a normal person?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. But come on, if you're dating someone and they ask you to come over and watch Netflix, do you really want to watch Netflix?"
We're watching Netflix, she thinks sharply, then catches herself before she says it out loud. You're not dating, her traitorous mind reminds her. Trying to push away the thought, she focuses on answering him.
"I'm just saying, I like watching Netflix too. It's not the worst to just hang out."
"I agree. But are you really telling me that if you’re sitting next to someone you like, you’re paying attention to the screen and not their every movement? That they wouldn't be distracting you at all?” Bellamy grins when she has no answer to that. “Told you. Netflix and chill.”
“Ridiculous,” she informs him, though she’s now hyperaware of his hand on her ankle and the way his bicep peeks out from the sleeve of his t-shirt as he throws an arm along the back of the couch.
“Come on, princess.” He looks at her curiously. “Have you really not heard about this?”
“Well it’s not like I’m getting flooded with offers,” she snaps, suddenly annoyed. Bellamy looks taken aback. Frustrated with herself, she stares at her lap. It’s already hard not to think about him like—like that, but this really isn’t helping. She looks up when Bellamy grasps her knee.
“Clarke—”
She waves a hand. “Forget it.” When his brow furrows even deeper, she sighs, knowing he’s not going to let it go. “I just—I haven’t gone on a date in weeks, alright?” Even if I had, I’d probably just be thinking about you.
“Shame,” he says, though it doesn’t sound like he means it. “You must be pretty hard up, then,” he says conversationally.
Clarke glares. “I get by.”
“Got a new vibrator already?” Bellamy's grinning now, smug and superior.
“Fuck you.” Mostly out of irritation, she rubs her heel against his crotch, satisfied when he nearly knocks the bowl of popcorn to the floor. His eyes narrow. Clarke arches an eyebrow.
Deliberately slow, he moves the popcorn bowl to the coffee table, then wraps both hands around her ankles and tugs her closer. She squeaks, grabbing the cushion. Bellamy leans her back so that her head rests on the arm of the couch.
“Netflix and chill, huh,” she manages shakily, and he grins and kisses her soundly. They’re so attuned to each other that he wastes no time with cutesy shit, just slides his hand up her top while toying with that spot by her ear that makes her tilt her hips desperately. Getting rid of her shirt, he scrapes a nail over the cup of her bra, lips trailing lazily over the swell of her breasts until she tugs at his hair, impatient. She can feel his smirk as he reaches behind her to unhook it, then stops in confusion.
Now she smirks. “Front clasp. Thought you’d be an expert by now.”
A shit-eating grin crosses his face. “Seriously?” Bellamy laughs and leans down, kissing between her cleavage until he comes to the hook, curling a finger around it.
“That’s hot,” he says unexpectedly.
“What? Why?”
“Just is.” He shrugs, removing her bra and then his own shirt. “I didn’t know you had that kind.”
For some reason she blushes. “I didn’t know you were keeping track.”
Bellamy doesn’t answer, just leans down to suck on the underside of her breast while his hand cups the other, and her back arches in silent plea until he covers a nipple with his warm mouth. She’s not thrilled with how eagerly she responds, but, well, she’s just gonna chalk that up to heat of the moment. And his talented tongue.
When he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to move from her breasts, Clarke has to laugh.
His mouth quirks up. “What?”
“You planning to make a home there?”
“Didn’t hear you complaining. In fact, I think—”
“Shut up,” she orders. “It’s—I’m used to everyone else gawking at them, just not you.” Now she’s embarrassed for bringing it up. “Sorry. Forget it, it’s dumb.”
“Clarke,” Bellamy drops a kiss on her lips. “It’s not dumb.”
“Most people are looking there instead of my face when they talk to me, that’s all.”
He almost looks agitated. “I don’t do that. Right?”
“No, you don’t.” She pats his cheek. “Anymore,” she adds with a grin.
He grins back. “Good. It’s not because they aren’t amazing, though. Because they are.”
“I’m well aware.”
“Yeah, well, if you ever need a reminder, I’m your guy,” he wiggles his eyebrows until she shoves him, giggling.
It’s this kind of stuff that’s killing her. She’s so comfortable around him, clothed or not, and he doesn’t treat her differently. He’s still her friend, still the person she can talk to no matter what, still the person who sets her blood boiling in all sorts of ways.
But as much as she wants to, she can’t open her mouth to say as much, so she just focuses on his hands and mouth traversing her body, figuring at least she’ll have the memory for later. She’s embarrassingly wet when they’re both finally naked, but Bellamy doesn’t comment, just spreads her thighs and licks right into her.
“Ah—fuck, you’re too good at that,” she sighs without thinking. He laughs against her skin and she rolls her eyes. “Any way you’ll forget I just said that?”
“Not a damn chance,” he grins.
“You suck.” Clarke sits up and pushes him back until he’s sitting against the cushions, adjusting his limbs so his feet are flat on the floor.
Amused, Bellamy pinches her side. “Done manhandling me yet?”
“Not a chance.” She crawls into his lap, knees on either side of his hips. Aligning their bodies, she’s about to sink down when his hands tighten on her waist. Looking up, she sees the question on his face before he can ask. “Pill, remember? It’s fine. I’m clean. I mean, obviously. Since I’m not dating.”
He nods. “Okay. Me too. And—there hasn’t been anyone for a while either.”
She tilts her head. “Really?”
“Really.”
“How—”
“Clarke,” Bellamy mumbles into her neck, stubble scratching her skin. “Do you really want to talk about this right now?” To make his point, his hands cup her ass.
“N-no. Forget it.” She lowers slowly, her cheek mashed to his, her body stretching until he’s deep inside. But even as they begin to rock together, his words linger in her mind.
It’s hard to figure out why he’s single. Even more concerning is that she wants it to stay that way.
V.
Wrapped in just her fluffy blue towel, hair still damp and curling over her shoulders, Clarke looks at herself in the mirror. Her reflection is not someone who looks excited to be going on a date. Her reflection is someone who keeps thinking about the after, the part where she'll probably go to Bellamy's and drink the rest of the night away and have more fun than the actual date itself.
And there's a more vocal part of her wondering why the hell she isn’t dating Bellamy.
~~~~~~~
Bellamy opens his door in an old blue Star Wars t-shirt, looking mildly surprised.
“Hey. Don’t you have a date to be at?”
“I did. I canceled.”
“Okay…” His eyebrows knit, and Clarke can see his mind already working a mile a minute. “Then you’re here because…”
“I don’t have an excuse this time,” she blurts out loudly.
“Sorry?”
“I don’t have an excuse. I didn’t accidentally text you, nobody pissed me off, I’m not lonely— I was getting ready for my date and I realized I didn’t even want to go on it unless you were there.” Clarke pauses for breath, her heart in overdrive at the look on his face. “I want you, Bellamy.”
His astonished expression lasts maybe two seconds, and then it’s replaced by delight as he pulls her into his arms, planting his mouth on hers with zero hesitation. All her nerves melt into joy.
“Thank god,” he says between kisses. “Do you know how exhausting this has been?”
Clarke laughs, giddy. “That’s your response? That I’m exhausting?” Her back hits the door as she returns his kisses just as fiercely, delaying his answer.
“I didn’t say you were,” he mumbles against her cheek. “But this… this was torture. It was like everything in the world was out to remind me of you. Everywhere I went, I saw things you liked, things you'd told me about, heard that stupid song you like so much--”
“Which one?”
“The one by that astronaut band.”
She’s confused for a long moment, but in between raising her hands to remove her shirt and undoing his belt buckle, she figures it out. “Walk the Moon?” She laughs. “God, how do you not know the name of that song? They repeat it like 20 times.”
“Shut up and dance with me,” Bellamy grins and hoists her into his arms, teeth flicking at her bra strap as she wraps herself around him.
“Loser.”
“Too late. I know you love me.” He lays her gently on the bed, nuzzling her cheek.
“Yeah—well… you love me,” she shoots back lamely.
Bellamy laughs and kisses her. “I think you’re the last person in the world to figure that one out.”
She grins and winds her arms over his shoulders, sighing when he presses her down into the mattress. It’s like they both suddenly realize the other isn’t going anywhere, and everything slows. What was always a rush of adrenaline and desperate need turns into playful nips and leisurely touches.
Even the way he kisses her feels different now. It’s long and slow and just so… loving. Like all he wants to do is make out with her. Like she’s the prize.
“Hey.” Bellamy noses her cheek. “Where’d you go?”
Clarke smiles and just hugs him with a happy sigh. “Nowhere. Just thinking that I’m definitely in love with you.”
His whole body seems to melt against hers. She rakes her fingers through his hair, already disheveled, thanks to her. She likes that it’s her fault. Bellamy lays his head on her shoulder.
“Not gonna lie, I wouldn’t mind if you feel the need to keep saying that.”
She laughs and whispers the words into his ear, against his forehead, along his cheek, until he kisses her again in that wonderfully new way.
“You never kissed like that before,” she says, mouth against his jaw.
“I didn’t think you wanted that,” he replies. “It was always—it always felt like there was a ticking clock, you know?”
“What, like I’d become a pumpkin at midnight?”
Bellamy chuckles. “That’s not the fairytale at all, you know. But—yeah. Something like that. I wasn’t sure if you wanted anything more, and I was too chickenshit to bring it up myself and ruin what we do have.”
Clarke gets it. In a way, he was just protecting himself, too. She cradles his cheek.
“Well, now there’s no clock. So you’ll have to deal, because I’m in love with you and I want you to kiss me and touch me all the time. In fact I’m probably going to insist on it,” she says, loving how his eyes light up. “And I’m basically not going to leave your bed, like ever.”
“Not even for shower sex?” Bellamy grins. “‘Cause I really want to try that.”
“Fine. Only for the shower. Or the wall,” she adds belatedly. “And maybe the kitchen counter.”
He lets out something that’s half sigh, half laugh, and all joy. “I really fucking love you.”
Clarke smiles and pulls his head down for another kiss. Their fingers lace together by her head as she lets herself marvel in the fit of his body over hers, the hard press of his chest and perfect warmth of his lips.
“Bellamy,” she sighs, and he lifts his head to smile at her.
“I’m going to leave a ton of hickeys,” he says, unapologetic.
“Such a loser,” she reiterates, but it’s not like she minds, honestly. And it’s not like it’ll be one-sided.
He sets about doing just that, first by her ear and then along her neck while she just tangles her hands in his hair and sinks further into the pillow, stupidly happy.
Then a thought occurs to her. “Wait. You said everyone knew?” She feels his answered yes against her ribs and shivers. “Even Raven?”
“She was the first one to figure it out.”
“Then why didn’t she say anything?”
Bellamy chuckles, resting his chin on her stomach and looking up. “Because I threatened to spill her dirty secrets to Wick otherwise.”
“You don’t know her dirty secrets.”
“I can imagine.” He rises to kiss her again. “She’s at the end of her rope, though. Last week she told me I had ‘til the end of the month before she butted in. Pretty sure she and O have a bet going too.”
“Oh god.” Clarke pushes at his shoulder, rolling them over so she can settle over him. “You know what you should do,” she says between bites to his chest, “pretend like you want in on it, and then we can time it so that you ‘win’ and split the money.”
“I don’t know whether to be offended or turned on that you’re thinking so hard right now.” Grinning, Bellamy sits up and unclasps her bra, closing his mouth over her breast and humming agreeably when she arches in his lap, greedily clutching at his hair. Then he shifts, and the sudden pressure against her center makes her whine and bite down on his shoulder.
“Bell,” she sighs. He twists them so that she’s on her back again, and they get rid of the rest of their clothes in a hurry. She urges him between her legs, sweeping her hands along his back and closing her eyes as he fits into the crook of her body.
He says her name just once, a cracked whisper, and she forces her eyes open again to meet his, crinkling at the corners as he looks down at her. Clarke smiles and leans up to nip at the crease in his chin, and then at his bottom lip, and then he’s kissing her long and deep as their bodies join. Her walls stretch to welcome him with ease, the full weight of him making her sigh into his mouth. She knows Bellamy well enough to know he’ll try to slow this even though they both want more, so she rolls her hips purposefully, grinning when he shudders and sinks inside her with one full thrust, biting her lip in the process.
She curls her arms around his shoulders as he rises to his elbows, drawing out almost all the way before snapping his hips back against hers. Her eyes shut on instinct, his name falling from her mouth as her back arches. She can feel the smugness even with her eyes shut.
“Stop smirking,” she breathes, hitching her legs up higher around his waist.
Bellamy laughs and just snaps his hips again, catching her moan with a kiss that makes her head spin. After that it’s all she can do to breathe and just hold on, her body perfectly fitted between Bellamy and the bed. She vaguely registers the mattress hitting the wall over and over, but it only makes her feel smug as shit because it’s her in the bed with him, and she kind of prefers that everyone know it.
“Trust me, everyone’s going to know,” Bellamy says roughly against her ear, and her eyes shoot open in surprise. He grins, slowing his thrusts until she’s gripping his biceps with shaky breaths. “You think out loud, princess.”
“Fuck you,” she mutters, but he just chuckles and pulls her left leg higher, making her gasp with his next thrust.
“Already doing that,” he replies, and it’s her turn to laugh, because he really is such a nerd, but he’s her nerd now, and it’s kind of the best.
The new angle makes her eyes roll back into her skull with alarming speed, and soon she has her face pressed to his shoulder, her cunt throbbing around his cock as he drives deep. She squeezes her legs tight around him, unable to stop the sounds leaving her mouth as she comes. It breaks the rest of Bellamy’s control and he soon follows with a few hard thrusts, mouth open against her neck.
Lazily, she cards her fingers through his hair, scraping her nails along his neck and grinning when he twitches. He moves a minute later, kissing away her protest and pulling her up with him, continuing to kiss her soft and quick even as they clean up.
She’s quick to find his shirt and get back under the covers, arching an eyebrow when he just stands there with a grin.
“What? I was serious about not leaving this bed.”
Still grinning hugely, Bellamy slides back in next to her, curling an arm around her shoulders and letting out his own small sigh when she hooks her leg around his. He lifts his hand to her jaw, thumb tracing the line of her lips until she kisses the pad of his fingertip.
“What is it?" She asks.
"I want to know what you're thinking."
Clarke wraps her arms around him, smiling contentedly. “It's just nice not to be wondering if it’s the last time I get to do this.”
Bellamy’s grip tightens as he tilts her chin up for a kiss. “Not even close,” he promises.
She grins. She can definitely get used to that.