Clarke's hands shake. She breathes through it as she stitches a nasty gash on Miller's arm. She shakes them out at her sides before smearing on antibacterial ointment for Raven when she busts up her knuckles inside a water filter she's making improvements to and her skin turns pink with the seaweed in it. If people notice they don't say anything to her and she appreciates the discretion. After all, sometimes she's almost okay. When she forgets about being in charge. When no one is looking to her for answers.
But Kane suggests she join Bellamy sitting in on the next Council meeting and her hands shake so bad she spills water down her front. She's glad he's the only one joining her and her mother for lunch in the med bay. Clarke can still feel a blush heat her skin even as she tries to fight it down. To his credit, Kane refills her cup without comment. Her mother has less tact.
“Clarke,” she says, resigned to her disappointment. Her fork clicks softly on her tray when she sets it down. Clarke plucks at the cotton clinging wetly to her skin instead of looking at her. She can hear the sharp exhale of her mother's irritation, “what happened to 'you might be the Chancellor but I'm in charge'?”
Clarke reels back from the words. Not so much because her mother decides to throw them back in her face but rather because she sees blistered skin anytime anyone asks her to take charge of more than wrapping sprains and stitching skin. The reminder that she bit and clawed her way into that position eats a hollow place behind her lungs. She shoves her hands under her thighs so she can pretend they aren't shaking. Clarke has no words to explain any of that to her mother.
“Mom,” she says, at the same time Bellamy says “Chancellor.”
Clarke hadn't noticed him looming in the doorway and it startles her. She used to be more aware than that. She had to be. But Bellamy hasn't been a threat for a long time now. At least not to her. He's glaring so meanly at her mother that Clarke almost wants to laugh. Kane looks like he might be fighting a smile, there is a tightness at the corner of his lips.
“I need you for a minute, Clarke,” Bellamy says, scowling at her mother so hard he can't even spare her a glance.
“We can finish this later,” her mom says, like maybe this is a conversation Clarke wants to have.
Bellamy isn't quite stomping away from the med bay but it's a near thing. She trails behind him quietly, both seemingly contented to be silent in each others' company. It started raining sometime the night before and hasn't stopped yet. What was a light drizzle at dinner has become slow, fat drops that hammer on the side of the Ark and turn Clarke's hair dark quickly. Bellamy drags her hood over her head even though he isn't wearing one and Clarke might have grumbled at him on another day. Instead she shoves her hands into her pockets and pretends like her fingertips don't feel numb at the idea of anyone looking to her for guidance.
She might be shying away from responsibility but Bellamy is taking up the slack. He has the remaining delinquents engaged in improvement projects just like at the drop ship. This time walls are taken care of but Lincoln offers practical experience building cottages that funnel smoke out and keep rain off their heads. So far most of the Sky People have turned up their noses at the squat, dirt floored cabins. Bellamy seems fine with that, his concern seems to only be the remaining forty six. Forty eight if he includes himself and Clarke but somehow he doesn't think he does anymore than she does.
Ostensibly he shares his cabin with his sister. Her bed is neatly made and Clarke suspects it hasn't been slept in recently which can't help his general mood.
“You needed something?” she asks when he finally stops not quite stomping about and crouches to stoke his fire.
“Your mom is all over my last nerve,” he tells her, shakes his head spraying water that sizzles where it hits the coals, “Council meetings are-”
He shuts himself up with a frown and pushes back up to his feet. He's almost too tall for the building and Clarke can only imagine that Lincoln probably has to hunch down. He looks over his shoulder at her without saying anything. Finally he shrugs and turns to face her properly.
“They don't listen to janitors,” he says easily and even though he's trying to be light there is a tick in his jaw when he says it, “your mom thinks you'd be a better spokesperson.”
“She doesn't get that I -” Clarke cuts herself off with a click of teeth that Bellamy hears. He must, it makes her jaw ache for a second and he peers at her through his wet hair. Finally she hisses a breath through her teeth, “that I'm not cut out to be in charge.”
For a while he doesn't respond to her. Refusing to sit in on the Council doesn't just piss off her mom. It forces Bellamy to handle it alone. She does feel bad about that. Instead of answering her he shrugs out of his wet jacket, hangs it on the hook near his door. It puts his body close to hers but she lets him think it over in his own time. There is less bickering that way.
“For what it's worth,” he offers, tossing her a dry cloth to towel dry her hair. She flips her head and his words are muffled as she works the cloth through her hair, “the others think you're good at it.”
“All forty six of them?” she reminds him bitterly. It's the perfect rebuttal, the perfect reminder that her best was never good enough.
“I think you're good at being in charge,” he says instead of trying to argue. Dead teenagers weigh heavily on both of them.
Even with that weight Clarke almost laughs at his assertion.
“You are so full of it,” she accuses, flipping her hair back. The wet strands rap against her coat, sharp in contrast to the dull pound of rain on the roof. Bellamy looks offended, or rather he tries to. The edges of his eyes crinkle with the smile he's holding back.
“I'm not,” he says, taking a step towards her so he can loom the way he likes to when they fight. It's lost a lot of impact in the weeks they've known each other. Loses more since his eyes are dancing with light and he isn't rigid with anger. It also doesn't work as well on her since she doesn't have to crane to look at him the way some people do.
“You are,” she rolls her eyes and straightens her shoulders. He's not the only one who can use good posture to intimidate. He has the audacity to grin at her for not be subdued by his attempt to crowd her into submission, “you argue with me all the time.”
“I never do that,” Bellamy shakes his head and his wet hair sticks to his skin, “I'm a loyal, obedient follower.”
It almost resembles the truth. Bellamy's loyalty hasn't been a question for a long time. It's in equal parts comforting and terrifying. She sees the needle marks in his skin when she closes her eyes sometimes. Between blinks she relives forcing herself to categorize and treat every cut and bruise. Because they were all her fault. Clarke finds the white, healed edges of a scar that has nothing to do with herself. The old scar over his lip is safe that way.
“You never obey,” she says, using his own word. When Bellamy huffs out a laugh his breath is hot and wet on her palm. The last time they did anything this close he begged her and she she caved. She had put wounds in his skin and she needed to fix it.
“I'm good at doing what I'm told,” he argues, leaning into her fingers. There is a weight in his eyes that doesn't threaten to crush her. The heat of it brings a flush to her cheeks and she becomes too aware of the quiet of his cabin, the soft patter of rain on the roof.
His smile is easy and lazy. He doesn't move exactly but he shifts his weight and the space between them goes tight. Clarke becomes suddenly aware of all the places that her jacket brushes his hips and chest. He bows his head slightly, he doesn't have to go far to close the space between them. His eyes drop to her mouth and she can count his lashes where they fan against his gold skin.
“Does the Council know that?” she teases. That's easier and safer than answering the warmth of his eyes. She pretends she doesn't watch him follow her throat down to where her wet shirt hugs the curve of her breasts. Pretends she can't feel it like a hand.
“I'm going at doing what you tell me,” he amends, snapping his eyes back up to hers.
She wants to laugh because that feels so untrue at first blush. She feels like everything between them has been a constant battle of wills. But no, that hasn't been the case for a long time. He doesn't reach out to touch her but his hands flex at his side. He sighs when she cups his cheek in her palm rather than ghosting her fingers over his freckles as she has been.
The last time he was this close to her Bellamy stank of acid fog, had soot on his cheeks, and blood on his skin. All because he’d done everything she asked of him. Clarke feels a rush of power, control, that is thrilling rather than terrifying. She can't help herself. She wants to test the edges of it. Maybe call his bluff.
“On your knees,” she says, chin tipping up. Maybe her voice shakes but her hands don't.
He drops so fast Clarke winces for him. Her hand on his jaw keeps him looking up at her from his knees, following the suggestion in the press of her fingertips. Somehow they manage never to break eye contact and Clarke thinks holy shit. Or maybe she says it out loud because Bellamy grins at her, hands loose at his sides, head tipped up towards her. He does have to crane his neck to meet her gaze. They were standing close enough that the toes of her boots are inside the v of his thighs. She swallows hard at the same time he licks his lips. A muscle in his jaw ticks under her palm.
For a while neither of them say anything. Bellamy just waits on her, never takes his off her face, never fidgets. Clarke isn't quite sure what to do with this, how to answer his implicit trust. She waits until she can hardly stand it and brushes her thumb over the curve of his lip. Bellamy's mouth falls open like a sigh. His eyes almost flutter closed before he catches himself. She tests the edge of his lip, feels the hitch in his breath. Clarke presses her thumb into his mouth, feels the edges of his teeth. His jaw falls open as wide as he can get it, lets her slide two fingers over the slick of his tongue. She stops when he almost gags and her body clenches. His eyes water with it but he makes no attempt to escape the press of her fingers.
She wipes her fingers on his shoulder and the smirk he gives her is deadly.
When her hand clips his jaw it's gentle. It's not enough to turn his head but his eyes go dark and his breath stops all together for a second. He goes utterly still under her except the flex of muscle in his jaw when he swallows. Clarke pulls her hand away like he has stung her. His skin isn't even red where she hit him. Bellamy whines at the loss of contact. His nose wrinkles and his brows draw together. The sound he makes is soft, plaintive. It is simultaneously adorable and scorchingly hot. Wetness floods Clarke and she presses her thighs together. For the first time since she started stretching this rubber band between them he drops his gaze from hers. She feels like she ought to blush. His gaze his hungry when he leans towards her. Clarke is pretty sure she sees him breathe deep. Which is a whole new layer of intensity to this that she isn't wholly ready for but there is no way she's turning her back on it now that she has found it.
His hair is damp and cool between her fingers and she tugs on it until he looks up at her. They both know he resists just to make her pull a little harder. When she fists her hands in his shirt he helps her pull it off, lifts his arms for her. He shakes his hair out when she tosses the shirt aside. Clarke's fingers brush his collar bone, pet across the soft skin just above it and he closes his eyes. His whole face is slack and soft. She steps over his thigh. Bellamy sways towards her when she moves.
“Stay like this,” she says as she gives him a quick, sharp tap from the back of her hand on his shoulder. The sound echoes in the quiet room, harder than the first.
Bellamy's shoulders flex and he groans. The sound is rough, breathless. It is torn from his chest without his bidding. His eyes snap open and he cuts his gaze sideways, toward her but he doesn't move as he tries to watch her. She presses her thumbnail against the sharp edge of bone in his shoulder until she leaves a crescent moon behind. His whole body trembles with it. Her hands don't. Not even when she crosses behind him and her fingers trail over the scars on his back he earned in the mountain. She scrapes her nail over the tight, shiny skin and thinks more about his ragged breath than her own guilt.
Clarke palms his shoulders, pulling them back to straighten his posture. He offers no resistance. When her nails skim his biceps, tug back his arms so they rest easy behind him Bellamy sighs. It's almost silent but his whole body seems to relax with it. The muscles in his back loosen as one. She smiles then, lets her nails scrape up the back of his neck into his hair. His head falls forward at her gentle urging. She presses until his head is bowed and she draws absent patterns on the back of his neck.
She settles her hands on his shoulders, palms the freckles she loves. Clarke leans close until her nose presses against his damp hair.
“Stay like this,” she says again and she feels as much as feels his deep rumble of assent.
Clarke circles back in front of him and steps into the v of his thighs. He does move, just a little but since it's to nose the inside of her thigh she lets it go. She sinks down to crouch between his spread thighs. He doesn't pull back so his mouth and nose drag up her body, his lips touching her stomach where his nose presses her shirt up.
Crouching between his thighs is precarious with her feet trapped so close together between his legs She doesn't have much stability so she presses her knee into the curve of his ribs. Bellamy just takes the weight, shifts his hips until he can press counterpoint to her and she steadies. Her hands curl into his hair, nails scraping over his scalp and he pants into the curve of her throat.
Clarke can relate. In this position she can't press her thighs together to relieve the dull ache of wanting him. She drops her hand from his hair to press over the front of her jeans. With his head bowed the way she told him to keep it he has a perfect view. It proves almost too much for him. His hand jerks up as if he's going to touch her. Though he catches himself she jerks her hand back, slaps against his abdomen with a sharp crack of skin on skin. Her other hand fists tighter in his hair and draws his head back. His gaze snaps up to hers.
His gold skin is flushed and his lips are parted. Bellamy's eyes have gone space dark and watching him need her is spectacular. She wouldn't realize that he was leaning towards her if her hand wasn't fisted in his hair, if she couldn't feel the slight increased tug.
“Not yet,” she says and her voice sounds low and rough, sexy even to her own ears. Her hand pets through his hair, the other bracketing the base of his throat so she can feel him swallow.
“Yet?” he asks, grinning crookedly at her and licks his lips. He rolls some tension out of his shoulders and seems to settle more securely where he is and the smile softens on his mouth, “okay.”
He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. If watching him need her is spectacular, watching him settle himself, wait for her to tell him it’s alright is a religious experience. She watches his face, the slack in his jaw and the heat in his dark eyes. His gaze bores into her and he wants her, it’s spelled out on his face clear as day. But he’ll wait. Her knees are already starting to protest crouching between this thighs, Clarke can only imagine the state of his but he shows no sign of discomfort.
She pets her hand down his chest, feels the hammer of his heart beneath her palm. His muscles are tightly corded, trembling with the effort of stillness. His mouth falls open when her nail catches on his nipple. It goes hard under the pad of her finger. Bellamy is breathing hard, his breath ghosting wetly across her skin and there is a furrow of concentration between his brows. She presses her mouth against it, brushes circles over the copper disk of his nipple until the crease softens under her lips. He signs, his breath sending shivers down her spine where it trails over her throat. Her hand traces lower and she pulls back to watch herself unzip his pants. Bellamy’s gaze falters for a second, he almost bows his head.
“No,” Clarke says, one hand rising to cup his jaw, press her fingers over the scar above his lip. A little frown forms between his brows while he fights to do as he’s told. Bellamy’s gaze locks with hers and when she curls her other hand around his erection his moans.
It’s the most masculine thing Clarke has ever heard. Her head drops and her mouth finds his. He is eager and pliant under the press of her lips, trembling in his effort to stay still. When Clarke thought about kissing Bellamy for the first time she’d assumed it would be before fisting her hand around his cock. It definitely didn’t include him waiting obediently on his knees at her whim. Reality is much better.
She breaks away panting, watching his eyes snap open. For a second she thinks he’s going to chase her mouth for another kiss. That determination that used to intimidate her her so much is bright in his eyes and he keeps still. He huffs out a breath and licks the taste of her off his lips. Clarke smiles and her whole face feels lighter for it. Something changes in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. It’s not hard for him to stay still, he breathes a little easier with her smile.
Clarke doesn’t let herself think that it’s wonder in his eyes.
His jeans are undone but it doesn’t give her a lot of room to stroke his cock. The angle is bad and her stroke is shallow. It doesn’t stop him from turning the most gorgeous shade of pink as his whole body flushes. His hips cant up towards her and she smears precome under her thumb. The scowl he gives her when she pulls her hand away has no real bite to it. Less when she sucks the salt of him off her thumb.
“Clarke,” he says softly, baritone turned to gravel on his lust, “Clarke, that is so hot.”
Which, yeah it is.
Clarke laughs and stands, body so close to his that he mouths her thigh through her jeans. There will be a wet mark when he’s done. She can see down the line of his back to where his fingers have linked loosely together, making it easier for him to keep the position she put him in. In the dim light of his fire his skin is shining with sweat. Restraint is hard. Holding still in an uncomfortable position is work. And he does it just because she asks it of him. Clarke has to close her eyes for a second, has to steady herself with soft hands on his shoulders when her cunt clenches. Bellamy must feel the flex of her muscles because he lifts his head, presses his nose against the seam of her jeans. He definitely inhales against the fabric, rumbles out a growl of pleasure and for a second Clarke lets herself find friction against his open, seeking mouth.
He actually pouts at her when she pulls away. He looks like he’s been denied his birthday and Clarke laughs at him. He glares at her and it is fond and without malice.
“Soon,” she promises, petting his jaw, “you’re being so good for me.”
She meant it only as encouragement. It wasn’t supposed to be a part of the impossible tension between them. It works for Bellamy none the less. His cock bobs against his abdomen and his fists white knuckle together. His pupils are blown so wide there is almost no brown left. He doesn’t make a noise, he makes the perfect absence of it. His mouth falls open in a soundless, breathless, desperate pant of need. She feeds him the glistening drop of precome off her fingers and he humms against her skin.
The pop of her finger when she pulls it from his mouth is obscene.
She paints a shiny stripe across his collarbone, trailing her fingers over his skin as she circles behind him once more. If he’s uneasy now that he can’t see her it doesn’t show. She makes short work of her clothes, folds them neatly because it gives her something to do with her hands. Between Bellamy teasing her and this moment seems an impossible path. One things spilling into another until she wasn’t thinking about anything but Bellamy easy and pliant under her hands. On his knees for her. Reality is an uncertain without the heat in his eyes focusing her. Clarke swallows hard. Maybe they’ve been racing towards this for a long time now.
Perhaps not this precise moment. Maybe not Bellamy on his knees proving how obedient he can be for her. Her hands tremble until she curls them in his hair. Bellamy leans back against her thighs, one hand curling around her ankle so he can stroke his thumb over the bump of bone there. She pulls on his hair sharply, tipping his head up until his gaze rakes over her naked body. She kisses the smug smile off his mouth.
Maybe it has always been this precise moment.
She bites the inside of her lip as she draws a stool in front of him. Clarke knows what she wants but the logistics are fighting her. Next time she’ll prepare better. She feels utterly naked before him, laid bare under his eyes and she isn’t ready to come to terms like reverence in conjunction to the way he watches her.
It’s the way he watches her through, the hitch of his breath at the shine of wetness on her thighs, that lets her sit on the stool. It lets her settle her feet on either side of his lap. He holds his gaze on her face and she doesn’t let him off the hook. He doesn’t look away until she nodes and that in of itself makes her wetter, sparks like electricity between her thighs. He trails his gaze down her body, doesn’t even try not to grin as he takes in the swell of her breasts. His shoulders tense but he’s good. He doesn’t reach out for her. Clarke palms her breast for him, watches want and relief chase each other across his eyes. She just enjoys it for a minute, the way he watches her, the roughness of her calloused hands on her own skin. When he catches his lip between his teeth she tugs on the peak of her nipple. Clarke makes no effort to stop the rock of her hips at the lightning which shoots from her nipple to her cunt.
He follows her fingers with his eyes until she reaches the wet curls at the apex of her thighs. He skips ahead. Legs spread to make room for his knees there is no hiding from his eyes. It’s remarkably easy to sit still, to let him look. When he licks his lips Clarke thinks she might black out from arousal. Instead she teases her fingers over her clit. She’s already so wet that they can hear it, the soft sounds her fingers make teasing her folds. Clarke’s breath hitches and one foot arches, pressing her toes into the floor. There is something infinitely grounding in the way Bellamy presses his thigh against her heel, gives her something solid.
She tugs her hand through his already messy curls. He follows her lead until she lets him nuzzle into her thigh. He presses panting open mouthed kisses into her skin, eyes cut sideways to watch her still. The noise when she stretches her arm to press fingers inside herself is obscene. The flash of his teeth on her thigh makes her clench around her fingers. His lips shine with it when she strokes her wetness across them and he darts his tongue out to taste her like she thought he might. He tongues the seam of her fingers, licking her skin clean. The sounds he makes, soft noises of pleasure almost undo Clarke.
“Do you want more?” she asks and waits. For a minute he looks confused that his eager nod isn’t answer enough.
“Yes,” he gasps finally, words obscured by her fingers when he catches up to her, “please, yes.”
“You’re going to be good for me?” she asks because apparently torturing them both is fun for her.
“Fuck,” Bellamy grunts and then says “so good for you.”
Which, yeah that’s going to stay in permanent rotation.
Clarke nods and pulls her hands away from him. It’s all the encouragement he needs which is good because Clarke is going to need her hands. She braces them on the stool when he licks into her and she’d fall without the support. There is no hesitation in him, just a happy sigh as he tongues her slick folds, finds the bud of her clit. Bellamy is as relentless in this as he is in everything else. His tongue circles her clit, switching vicious pointed flicks of his tongue for lazy, hungry swipes in a senseless pattern that has Clarke whining and panting in no time flat.
His tongue fucks into her, pressing as deep as he can manage and it is good. It could be better, Clarke thinks.
“Use your hands,” she manages, voice raw.
His tongue finds her clit, circles it with precision that is maddening. But then he’s pressing her thighs apart under one hand and fucking her on the other and she was right. It’s so much better. His fingers curl inside her, hook forward until he’s hitting her just right. Clarke knows it’s her making the desperate, broken noises. She doesn’t care. His mouth closes over her clit and he matches relentless fingers with soft suction and lazy strokes of his tongue.
“Just like that,” Clarke gasp and Bellamy gives her what she wants. He gives it to her exactly how she needs until she see stars behind her eyes that look suspiciously like his freckles.
Bellamy nuzzles her thigh until she remembers that she has a body. His mouth trails a hot wet line down toward her knee and it brings her back to the present, to his unruly curls between her thighs. Her hand fists in his hair and she drags him back roughly. If it hurts, and it must, he only moans with it as she spills herself forward into his lap. His jeans are rough on her thighs and the zipper bites into her skin. It takes a little pushing to get him where she wants him but Bellamy goes easy. He takes the weight she presses into his shoulders. She licks the sharp taste of herself off his tongue. When his hands come up as if he’s going to touch her she catches his wrists and squeezes, presses them back down. To his credit Bellamy moans into the punishing sink of her teeth on his lip. He is eager as she rocks into his hips. His cock is caught between their bodies and precome smears on her belly.
“You’ve been so good Bellamy,” she tells him, leaning forward over him. One hand steadies herself on his shoulder, the other curls around his erection. She guides it to her entrance and rolls her hips down. They both cry out. The stretch is easy. She wants this so badly and she’s teased them both enough. It takes her another minute to situate herself on his lap. He sobs a breath into her throat at the teasing pace she sets. It takes Clarke apart. After that she can’t get enough of his skin. Her hands find his biceps, trace muscle down to his wrists, the pads of his hands.
Bellamy clings to her, lacing their fingers. His grip grinds her knuckles and he soothes the pressure with the brush of his thumb over her skin but shows no sign of loosening it. It holds Clarke close to him, presses her breasts against his chest. The rock of her hips is shallow, her nipples draw across his skin with every motion. Clarke nuzzles closer, slides her wet, open mouth across his jaw. He tilts his head to meet her part way, slanting his lips over hers.
It’s barely a kiss. They pant into the hollow of each other’s mouths, sharing a breath.
The speed never increases, the angle never changes. Clarke rides down on him in slow, shallow thrusts that turn his breath ragged. His thighs tremble under her and she will have marks from his zipper on her skin. Bellamy watches her face like he can’t look away. The trust in his eyes is intimidating. It’s another responsibility for her to shoulder alone. Clarke squeezes his hands, presses until he moans with it, flexing his hands under her fingers.
“You want to come, Bellamy?” She asks, voice hitching. His eyes flood with heat and his hips stutter up into her.
“Shit, Clarke,” he gasps, voice hollowed out and then “fuck, yes.”
She laughs. The sound is heavy and warm and Bellamy moans under her. She draws herself up, tugs his arms so they fold behind his back and let her rise off him. He drops his gaze to her breasts as she speeds up, deepens their angle. Clarke’s breasts bounce as she fucks him. A soft sound is strangled off in his throat and Clarke realises how much she likes those sounds.
His head falls forward and his mouth finds the curve of her breasts, sucking wetly wherever he can slide his mouth. He scrapes his teeth across the peak of her nipple and Clarke cries out. Her head falls forward to press her mouth across his cheek as she comes, grinding down on him to press her clit against his pubic bone. He holds her hands so tightly her fingertips go numb with it. For a moment she is nothing but pleasure and the ache of his grip on her hands.
“You can come for me now,” Clarke tells him, thighs aching as she resumes her previous pace. The sound of skin on skin is wet and vulgar. He snaps his gaze up to her face, mouth falling open. His hips buck up into her and she obliges him, rides down to take him as deeply as she can.
Bellamy sinks blunt teeth against her collarbone, growls into her skin. Actually growls, she can feel her skin vibrate with it and he floods her with heat and wetness. She actually hears one of her knuckles pop at the ferocity of his grip on her hands. Bellamy trembles against her, his breathing uneven and rapid. He presses his cheek into her throat and lazily licks sweat from the dip of her collarbone. Clarke sighs, tips her head forward to rest her cheek in his hair. Together they remember how to breathe. Finally his grip on her hands goes soft and the muscles in his thighs start to jump under her weight.
She gasps softly at the over stimulation of rising off him. His head falls forward and it is sweat that sticks his hair to his skin. She pulls her hands from his, rubs her palms up his arms as she stands. Her thighs slick with a rush of wetness and the small room smells like sex. When Bellamy looks up at her his eyes are hazy but a smile twists his mouth up. Clarke can only imagine how much his knees must ache. She draws up him up with soft hands and they both laugh into the heat between them when his knee creaks. He does nothing at all while she crouches to undo his boots but he has to put his weight on her shoulder to raise his feet on after the other so she can remove them. When she drags his pants and boxers down she presses soft kisses to his thigh.
She can smell the iodine of her cunt on his skin and she nips his hipbone gently. Bellamy just pets a tired hand through her hair. Clarke helps him spill himself onto his bed, folding his arms under his head. She rubs her palms over his thighs, feeling the twitch of aching muscles under her hands. She doesn’t realize she’s chewing her lip as she rubs the ache out of his muscle. Not until he touches her mouth with rough fingers.
“Relax,” he says and she thinks he’s trying for gruff. He fails.
When she looks up at him he’s smiling at her, propping himself up on one elbow as the other hand cups her jaw. His thumb brushes her mouth until she leaves off of biting at the inside of her lip. This time he’s the one who does the pulling, drawing her up to his mouth. It’s a proper kiss this time, he teases the sensitive swell of her lip between his teeth, soothes it with a too brief flick of his tongue and pulls her tight against his chest.
“See?” he says softly, pressing his forehead against hers, “you’re good at being in charge.”
“Oh my god,” Clarke says, a little mortified. But Bellamy laughs when he kisses her again, twists his fingers into her hair and doesn’t let her shy away from their nakedness.
She settles in the curve of his body, his heart beating against her back. When Clarke wiggles her hips back against his soft cock Bellamy groans and pinches the delta of her waist. It’s easy, probably too easy, to relax into the heat of his body, the heavy pressure of his arm slung over her hips. Bellamy toys his fingers through the gold curls between her thighs and Clarke squeezes her eyes shut tightly. His nose brushes the back of her neck through her hair.
“Council meeting is after lunch on Friday,” he says, pressing his mouth to her shoulder. He sucks down when her whole body goes tense and his fingers don’t stop their lazy exploration, “Clarke.”
“I can’t,” she says sharply and moves like she’s about to pull away. Bellamy’s arm doesn’t curl tighter exactly, it’s as if he just exerts more weight through it, keeping her curled tight to his body.
“Yes you can,” he tells her, breath a hot wave across her ear. His fingers tease across her outer lips, not giving her the pressure or contact she really wants. Her legs shake but her hands don’t. Clarke moans, head tipping back so he can kiss the seam of her jaw.
“Use your hands,” she tells him and he obliges her, slides his fingers over her clit. Clarke bucks her hips up, “so fucking good for me, Bell.”
“See,” he laughs, biting the curve of her ear, “you like being in charge.”
Clarke slaps his thigh and he doesn’t laugh any more. He moans obscenely into her ear and his cock gives a valiant twitch. She is sure that slow biology is the only reason that he is forced to resort to his fingers and tongue to bring her screaming again.
She’s in the Council meeting after lunch when her mother arrives, Bellamy beside her. Abby looks almost smug. Proud, of course, and fond, but a bit like she’s won something too. Or at least she does until Clarke touches Bellamy’s mouth softly and he looks up at her through the fan of his lashes with heat that threatens to set her on fire right then and there. Then her mother looks mostly pale and uncomfortable. Kane looks like he might be fighting a smile, there is a tightness at the corner of his lips. Clarke thinks maybe they’ve been rushing towards this for a long time now.