"Clarke, can I talk to you for a second?"
The blonde closes her eyes at the sound of his gruff voice, her shoulders stiffening and her fingers curling into her palms. She knows what he wants to talk about, has been dreading it since it happened a few days ago. She digs her nails into her palms harder, trying to ground herself before she turns on her heels to face him. Clarke plasters a friendly, close-mouthed smile on her face. “Yeah?”
She tries not to wince as he steps closer, but it’s too late. He’s noticed. He raises one hand in the air, like it might help steady her somehow, like he’s telling her I’m not moving closer, please don’t leave -- an always lingering fear between the two of them -- his voice shaking slightly as he says, “Clarke, I’m so sorry -- I never meant to hurt you.”
“I know,” she croaks out, almost pleading, because that’s not it, God, that’s not it at all. She’s disgusting. A terrible human being. How can he stand to look at her?
“I hope…” Bellamy continues, tongue darting out to wet his lips. His whole expression is full of pain, resentment, anger, frustration, self-loathing, regret. He looks wrecked, like he hasn’t slept in days; bags under his eyes, hair an unkept mess, a tiny layer of sweat covering his skin despite the early evening chill. “I hope you can forgive me, and that one day you might trust me again. That you’re no longer scared.”
Her eyes flutter closed at the mention of the word ‘forgive’ , briefly, as she tries to let it all in at once. The memories, the hurt, the what ifs. It’s what they do, what they’ve always done. It’s no question whether she forgives him or not; that’s already done. She just doesn’t think he should do her the same favor.
“I’m not scared,” Clarke urges, tries to sound strong and steady, tries to leave no room for doubt. The thought of him thinking he did something wrong almost unbearable when it’s she who’s fucked up. Then she takes a tentative step forward, trying to show him just as much. She swallows tightly, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear before she uses the same hand to give his forearm a squeeze. “I’m not. I know it wasn’t you.”
“It was me,” he snaps, heated at himself, exasperated as he shakes his head lightly. “God, I hate that I hurt you.” Without warning, he reaches out to stroke the soft, bruised skin on her neck. Deep purple starting to bloom into a faded yellow. Clarke’s breath hitches in the back of her throat, freezing under his gentle touch, heat rising on her cheeks as a similar warmth pools at her centre.
Bellamy pulls his hand back as if touching fire, but some sort of primal instinct takes over, has to insist him touching her is not the problem, that she's not afraid of him as much as she's afraid of herself, as she catches his fingers, breathing out a small, “No,” before dropping his hand all together, quickly, as his head snaps up to look at her.
He regards her, confusion evident on his face by the way his forehead is crinkled, his eyes searching her face for an explanation. “Clarke, are you okay?”
She ignores him, tries to take short, steady breaths even if her heart is stuttering in her chest, trying to regain a normal rhythm.
"Clarke?" He urges, again, but she refuses to meet his gaze, swallowing visibly.
Bellamy's fingers curl around her chin, make her look at him. Tears pool in her eyes and she lets out a breathy whimper as the first one falls. She's pathetic. Crazy.
The soft look in his eyes has her blubbering out the words. "I'm sorry. I'm fucked up. I don't --”
“You’re not fucked up, Clarke,” he snaps, and she wishes he could be less understanding, “I’m sorry for touching you like that. Especially after what happened during the Red--”
“That’s not the problem at all,” she retorts, angrily, letting out a mirthless chuckle as she crosses her arms over her chest, turning away from him before she can fully register the look of surprise on his face. Another image to torture herself with at night.
“Then what’s the problem?” He prods, quietly, after a moment, and she can feel him shift closer again.
She lifts one shoulder, half-heartedly, wishes he would give it up already. This is what they did years ago, her and him, have actual meaningful conversations instead of miscommunication after miscommunication. There's a dull ache in the middle of her chest, how she can be this close to him again, finally, so familiar, and how she's going to have to ruin it, too, if she choses to be honest with him in this moment.
“Tell me,” Bellamy commands, more gentle than necessary, tugging on the sleeve of her jacket.
Clarke continues to ignore him, face turned away, jaw squared. She knows she’s being petulant and she doesn’t care.
“If you don’t tell me --” He presses, angrily, his voice rough. She knows it’s not directed at her, more at his own frustration that he no longer knows the magic words to make her confess like he used to, but it still makes a surge of wetness pool between her thighs.
“It’s embarrassing, okay?” She blurts out, cheeks on fire as she finally looks at him, heart beating so loud like it’s threatening her with each beat. Don’t do this. Don’t do this. He’ll never look at you again. He’ll think you’re crazy.
“What is?” Bellamy says after a beat, voice back to a soft resigned tone.
Her eyes glaze over, and she’s so fucking disgusted with herself she feels nauseous. “I didn’t hate you touching me like that, Bellamy,” Clarke explains, and she might actually be sick at having to admit this to him. “I liked it.” Kicking at a rock mindlessly, she spits, “I fucking liked it.”
He inhales sharply, a tense silence settling between the two of them. She watches his adam’s apple bob up and down heavily. Finally, he speaks, “Now, or before?”
“Does it matter?” She flares, mortified enough to be irritated with him instead. Can’t he just drop it? Let her accept the apology and move on.
“I asked, didn’t I?” He bites, just as hostile.
“Both times,” she says, thinking the sooner she talks, the sooner this can be over and they can go back to whatever they were doing before this. “But during the Red Sun, the first time -- I can’t stop thinking about it. Your hands. On my neck as you --” She cuts herself off, mouth snapping shut. There’s lines she shouldn’t cross. Even with him.
His eyes are dark, pupils blown as she meets them, voice rough. “As I what?”
She thinks about Echo, how he probably loves her, about how what she’s build up between the two of them during their six years apart is probably just that, her imagination. Clarke shakes her head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
He takes a step closer, and another, and then she feels her back hit a sturdy tree as she stares up at him with big, uncertain eyes. Low, he warns, arms coming up to cage her in, “I’m not going to ask again, Clarke.”
He’s not even touching her and her pussy is clenching around nothing, sparks shooting up her spine. She inhales, shakily, refuses to look away from him. She grits her teeth, gives him another second to back down. When he doesn’t, she discloses, “As you fuck me.”
For all it’s worth, Bellamy barely reacts. His face is unreadable, hands dropping to his sides as they ball up into fists. Clarke laughs; a cold, humourless sound echoing off the miles of trees surrounding them. “I told you. I’m fucked up.”
He remains still in front of her, and for some reason it pisses her off. The least he can do is agree with her. She pushes against his chest, even though he barely budges. “Just say it, Bellamy. Say I’m sick, say I’m disgusting, say I never--”
He cuts her off by pressing his mouth against hers, hard, the force of it making both of them stumble back into the tree as his fingers dig into her lower back. She wishes she could say it took her a moment to realize what was happening, to respond, but the minute his lips touch hers, she’s kissing him back, wet, desperate, sloppy.
Clarke arches into him, tries to get as close as possible to him, certain this can’t last long. He’s going to come to his senses sometime soon and this will all be over. Something between them will have been broken forever and she can never have this again, never have him again.
Instead his mouth keeps moving over hers, nipping at her bottom lip with his teeth alternated with soft healing pecks and his tongue fucking into her mouth. One hand slides over to her front, up her torso to cup her tit through the fabric of her tank. She moans into his mouth, moves her foot so his knee presses right against his centre. She’s so wet, he might be able to tell through her jeans, through his. The thought drives her absolutely insane.
She shrugs off her jacket, and he’s already dragging down her tank top -- so rough she can hear the fabric tear -- desperate to get her tits free from their confines as he pulls down the cups of her bra. He doesn’t waste any time getting his mouth on her hard rosy nipples, giving each one just as much attention with his hands as his mouth taking turns. All she can do is making embarrassing noises, writhing against his knee as she digs her nails into his back.
He’s still so clothed, but she doesn’t want him to stop long enough to take anything off. She wants him everywhere, all at once, never to stop touching her, kissing her, making her feel this good.
Bellamy presses her into the tree harder, bark scuffing the bare skin of her shoulders but she can barely feel it; pain only adding to her pleasure. He starts to fumble with the button on her pants while he peppers kisses up her collarbone, her neck, that sensitive spot just below her jaw. Nips at her pulsepoint until she gasps, until he leaves a new mark to replace the old ones, until her pants drop down her thighs.
Her fingers curl into the back of his henley as he shoves his hand down the front of her panties, letting out a low growl as he slips in between her folds. “God, you’re so fucking wet, princess.”
All Clarke can do is hum affirmatively in response, beyond words at this point. His forearm comes up to press against her collarbone, dig into her windpipe, press her back into the tree, and before she knows it, he shoves two fingers up her cunt without warning. She yelps, tries to squirm, but she can’t, held in place by his arm as he fucks her with his fingers.
Bellamy presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, nuzzling her cheek before putting his mouth to her ear, “You like this, huh?” He drags her earlobe between his teeth, soothes the sting with a soft kiss. “Having someone else in control?”
“No,” she gasps, eyes still screwed shut from pleasure, the back of her shirt starting to dampen with sweat. “Just you.” She only trusts him. Only ever him.
He groans at her answer, something deep and primal, reverberating from his chest as he finds her mouth again, lips moving over hers like he’s trying to win an argument. His thumb comes up to circle her clit, shooting tiny electric sparks of pure bliss up her spine. More, more, more. It’s been so long anyone has touched her like this, so many times she’s imagined him touch her like this.
“You think you can take another?” He murmurs against her lips, smirks at the way her eyes widen in alarm as they spring open to look at him. She tries to shake her head, already feeling way too full but he pecks her mouth, nuzzles her nose with his. “I think you can, baby.”
Just like that, Bellamy shoves another finger inside her, making it three of his long thick fingers up in her cunt. The stretch is unbelievably, making tears spring in her eyes at the painful sensation of feeling so full. Too full, maybe, but he thinks she can take it, so she will.
Her orgasm comes closer with each pump of his fingers, flick of his wrist, touch of his thumb. Her thighs start to quake, and she has to stop kissing him, has to remind herself to breathe, and it’s all too much, way too much, until finally the tight coil that’s been building in lower belly since he kissed her snaps, and she comes. Hard.
Her body slumps forward against his, and he removes his arm from her collarbone, holds her up as he wipes away her hair from her damp forehead gently, helping her through the aftershocks as he lets her buck against his hand a little longer. She thinks her knees might give out.
Clarke opens her eyes after a moment, once she’s sufficiently come down, hisses as he pulls out his fingers at once. Her juices drip down his fingers, fat drops falling onto her thighs. He wipes them on her wet panties, then sucks of the remainder of her juices while keeping eye-contact.
He takes a step back, and for a moment, she feels complete panic. Then she sees him start to unbuckle his belt, pop open the button of his pants before he pulls down his boxers just enough for his cock to spring free. He lets out a small groan of relief and Clarke presses her thighs together at the sight. If she thought three fingers were too much, she’s in for a ride.
Her lips part slightly as he closes the distance between them again, grabs her hand to put it on his cock. He’s already painstakingly hard, pulsing underneath her touch. She’s tentative at first; it’s been a while since she’s touched one. Only used to girls by now, their softness, their small, lean fingers and smooth curves. Then he shudders and his breath hitches as he leans his head forward, resting against the tree just above her shoulder and she starts getting more enthusiastic, wants to make him feel just as good, wants to hear him say she’s doing a good job.
She spreads his precum around with her thumb, and when that turns out to be less than enough, brings up her palm to spit in it before wrapping it back around his length. She moves her hand up and down, responding to every sharp intake of breath and sound he makes. Just when she’s about to sink down on her knees, get a taste of him, get him to make more of those noises he’s making, he catches her by the wrist, uncurling her fingers from him, pulling back to look at her. “No. I won’t be able to hold back.”
Annoyed that he won’t let her do the same he did for her, she snarls, “So?”
He narrows his eyes. “So I want to fuck you before our friends start to wonder what’s taking us so long.”
Feeling too much eagerness at his statement, she tries to cover it up by trying to sound just as irritated as earlier. Challenges, “Then do it already.”
Bellamy’s mouth is back on hers in an instant, and she’s pushing her panties down her hips already. She needs him more than ever. Needs him inside her.
He coats his cock with her wetness by dragging them through her folds, before bumping his head against her entrance. Her eyes roll into the back of her head at the sensation. He hitches one of her knees up for better access, then re-aligns himself. Again without warning, he slides into her, doesn’t stop when she tenses up and cries out, just keeps pushing until he’s bottoming out, filling her to the hilt. She takes in deep breaths, squeezing her eyes shut, keeps whispering fuck, fuck, fuck over and over again. A sharp pain spreads from her centre to the rest of her body, but he barely gives her time to readjust -- pulls out, slams back in. Repeats.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, leaning his forehead against her collarbone for a moment as he tries to collect himself.
She just whimpers as he pulls back out, and this time he pauses, head just pressed against her warm canal as he looks up at her, catches her gaze. One hand comes up to cup her jaw, thumb brushing away the tear that slipped down her cheek. He kisses her again, soft and gentle, his voice kind, “You’re doing such a great job, baby. Such a great job.”
Pride swells within her, helping her muster together a smile that quickly turns into a gasp as he pushes back in completely. Her body arches against his, hard nipples brushing against the scratchy fabric of his henley. “I knew you could do it,” he breathes, licking a stripe up the column of her neck, biting her shoulder. “I knew you could take me better than anyone else.”
Pain starts to turn into pleasure soon, her walls expanding to accommodate him, like she was made just for him, no one else but him, wetness trickling down her cunt, the point where they’re joined and onto her thighs. God, she feels so full. So full. She loves him. Filling her up like this. Making her feel so good.
Clarke can feel she’s coming closer and closer to a second orgasm just from penetration alone, lets out a loud moan as he rolls a nipple in between his thumb and forefinger. She presses her head back into the tree harder, exposing her neck to him.
Finally, his fingers come up to wrap around her throat. His thumb runs over the old bruises gently at first, but then his fingers are digging into the sensitive flesh as he applies more pressure. His hand is so big, it practically covers her entire throat and the thought of it almost makes her come.
Bellamy fucks into her harder, sound of his flesh slapping into hers the only sound for miles. He squeezes just enough, adding some pressure but not depriving her of air. “You like this, huh?”
His dark eyes meet hers, pupils blown as he slams into her harder and harder. She’s sure her entire back is red and raw from the bark scratching her skin. “You like it just like this.” He captures her mouth again, bites down on her lip, sending a thrill straight through her. His breath is hot on her face. “Did you get yourself off? Thinking of my hands wrapped around your neck? Huh?”
“Bellamy,” she rasps, but she can barely get any sound to come out, constricted by his hand still around her throat. He has all the control; he could kill her if he wanted to, right now. She’s powerless. Fire builds in her core, higher and higher. She trusts him.
“You’re such a good girl,” he praises, other hand cupping her breast firmly, like it’s made just for this purpose. He presses a kiss against her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “You don’t want me to come inside of you, do you?”
“I do,” she rasps, desperate, hips bucking up against him, meeting him with every snap of his hips. “I do.”
He tightens his grip on her throat, almost like a warning. “Tell me where I should come.”
“Inside--” She gasps loudly as he props up her knee just a little higher by pressing closer to her, changing the angle slightly and she’s so close, so close, she can hardly think rationally, think of the fact her birth control implant probably stopped working somewhere along those six years, think of the fact she can’t have him fuck a baby in her when they’re supposed to be preventing another war between their people and the people standing in the way of their survival. Hardly speak at all, her voice croaking. “Inside me.”
He groans at the admittal, finally letting her tit out of his death grip as he starts thumbing at her clit methodically, somehow knowing just how to get her where he wants her to go the fastest. The combination of the pressure on the bundle of nerves, him filling her up so good, so perfect, and the hand wrapped around her so tightly has her fall apart fast. He releases his hold on her neck as she hits her peak, walls clenching around him, milking his cock inside of her and drawing in his own release. She’s sure he’s replaced all his old bruises with new ones, better ones.
He comes with a choked sound in the back of his throat, something sound a lot like ‘I love you’ , slumping against her as he buries his face into her neck. Her fingers knot into his hair, combing through it as she now returns the favor of helping him come down, pressing light kisses against his temple and head. Once he does, he pulls out, making both of them wince, and then starts trailing kisses up the side of her neck and jaw, until he reaches her mouth again.
He kisses her lazily, languid, even though they’re both still out of breath. His cum drips down her thighs, making them sticky. He brushes some hair plastered to her forehead back, eyes almost too soft for her to handle. “Was that how you imagined it?”
Her stomach flips. If only he knew. “Better.”
Bellamy stares at her for a beat, and she bites down on her bottom lip, then thinks fuck it, she’s already embarrassed herself more than enough today, what’s a little more humiliation, and asks, quiet, “Is it ever like this with her?”
“No,” he answers, genuine, too quick to be a lie. He suddenly sports a similar expression to her ‘fuck it all’ face. “That’s because I’m never fully there with her. I’m always thinking of something else.” His jaw clenches. “Someone else.”
All those years -- all those fucking years, and he still could never shake her completely. It sends a sick thrill of excitement up her spine. Something a lot like hope.
Her heart slams wildly in her chest. “You can stop thinking about it. I’m right here. Whenever you want.”
His smirk is cocky, too arrogant for her liking, but warmth still blooms in her chest at the thought of how he always used to look just like this when they first came down from the Ark. Lifetimes ago. When they were younger, more innocent, less traumatized. His thumb brushes over her lips, knee shifting up so it brushes against her still heated and overstimulated core so all she can do is let out a soft whimper. His smirk widens. “Oh, I know you are.”