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Young Blood

Chapter Text

The atmosphere of the camp was completely different tonight.

Loud music hammered into the air, drumming against the trees and shaking the ground as kids stamped their feet to the rhythm. Clarke had never seen any of them like this before, and--well, to be honest, it was nice. Refreshing, even.

It was nice to let loose.

Earlier that day, she'd sent Jasper and Monty off to the art store to scrounge for spare parts for their radios. What they found instead was a pile of old CDs and a player that seemed to have short-circuited--but with a few tweaks from Monty, proved to blare music just fine. When Raven got wind of what was going on in the camp, she'd promptly torn out a set of speakers from the dropship ("Just for now," she promised a concerned Clarke) and hooked them up to the player, creating an enormous makeshift stereo system.

The camp had exploded with excitement at the presence of real music thundering through their site. They had all bunched up close to the stereo and broken out in rhythmic swaying, whooping and hollering with a frenzy, and she couldn't get any of them to go back to work until she had promised that they could have a "dance party" later that night. "DANCE PARTY, BITCHES!" had been Octavia's zealous response, and the kids around her roared their approval.

Clarke had hardly been able to blink back her astonishment. Their enthusiasm was unlike anything she'd ever seen before. Maybe because she'd never gotten the appeal of mass grinding, those rowdy gatherings that she knew occurred in the lower levels of the Ark almost every night, sweaty bodies writhing against each other in a shameless display of teenage hormones.

She and Wells had always attended the adult galas, with the polite conversations and respectful partnered dances that she was used to. Every set of music was smart and tasteful, and the dancers always kept appropriate distances away from their partners' bodies, no matter whether they were married or not.

This was different.

This was something else.

Clarke watched the throng of dancers from the sidelines, fascinated.

When night had begun to fall, Raven had emerged from her tent with a palette of chemicals and a crafty smile. She dropped pinches into each of the bonfires in the camp, and each fire had flared into a different color: red, blue, green--one of them was even a dark fuchsia. The kids had ooh-ed and ahh-ed appropriately with each transformation, and by the time she was done, a thundering cheer reverberated throughout the camp.

Raven took an exaggerated bow, and then she'd grinned up at Clarke. Clarke shrugged helplessly and smiled back. The colored fires made for dimmer lighting, but who was she to complain? Everyone loved it, and it had the most spectacular effect on their campsite.

Bellamy had been significantly less charmed by the entire ordeal. "What about the Grounders?" He had hissed, grabbing her off to the side. "Our music's going to be damn loud--it'll be like an invitation for open season."

Clarke met his glare steadily. "When was the last time you'd seen them this excited over something? Give them their night, Bellamy. They deserve it." And then she shrugged. "It's not like the Grounders don't know where we are. If they'd wanted to attack us tonight, they would've anyway, music or not."

He still didn't look happy with her decision, but he'd dropped the subject.

After the sun slipped beneath the horizon, the party raged on. Hardly anyone could see who anyone was anymore under the dark colors of the fires, but it only added to the ethereal quality of the night. For now, they weren't on the Ark, they weren't on Earth--they weren't anywhere at all, really.

Tonight was their own little world.

Monty had taken the wheel at DJing, a job he seemed to excel in. Plus, he seemed to be having a blast up there, bobbing his head up and down as he changed from song to song.

Clarke only wished Wells was here with her. He'd always had the best rhythm, leading her in every one of their dances. She missed him. Her throat burned, and she took a deep breath to clear her mind. She turned instead to search the faces in the crowd, wondering if she'd be able to recognize anyone from their writhing silhouettes.

Suddenly, near the red fire, she caught a glimpse of someone. Her heart stopped.

It was Finn. His head jutted out from over Raven's body while she ground against him behind her, their bodies lost in a fever known only to the music. Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted--and he seemed to be enjoying her every much as she enjoyed him. Their expressions seared into Clarke's mind, and she swallowed hard.

No. No way. Not tonight. She wasn't going to wallow in self-pity forever like this.

Clarke's feet moved forward before she could stop herself, throwing herself into the horde of people. For a moment, she stood there uncertainly, not knowing what she was trying to prove. But then she let herself go. She began to sway, dancing as she had never danced before--mindlessly, moving only to what her ears heard, swinging her hips with a natural ease that she'd never known herself having. She felt absolutely empowered with her every movement.

The dancers around her seemed to vehemently agree. Their bodies had slowed when she'd made her entrance, curious about the newcomer, but the longer she danced, the more gleeful their hollering became. Hands grabbed at her, pulling her further along into the mob, and they yelled their encouragement at her as she swayed, bobbing her head down and throwing her hair back as she shook out her roots behind her.

If she didn't know before, Clarke was very sure now that no one knew who she was. They'd never treated her with this much camaraderie before--it was always respect, fear, intimidation, or some challenging attitude.

As Clarke took a step back, she suddenly collided into someone behind her, and her hands flew back to grab onto something. The body behind her gripped at her at the same time, to keep her steady, and she paused. It was a guy.

What the hell.

She shimmied up to him shamelessly, nudging her ass to the front of his hips. Behind her, she could feel him tensing up.

No response.

What, didn't he dance? Come on, he was standing in the middle of a freakin' crowd of dancers. He'd better dance if he was going to make his way out here.

She rolled her hips against him again, but each ripple of movement was exaggerated, purposeful. She could hear a light sigh behind her, and then he grabbed her hips and began to move. Good, she thought with a satisfied smile.

He had large, square hands that he placed right above her hipbones, and she covered them with her own hands, slipping her fingers between the cracks. Holy shit. His dancing was sinful. The way he rocked against her in perfect synchronization with her own body sent hot, tingling flashes from the pit of her stomach to places deep inside of her that ached.

Where had this guy been all her life? More importantly, why had he been so reluctant to dance if he was this good at it?

She writhed against him harder, shamelessly, never before knowing her body to be capable of such a response. It wasn't like she'd expected to turn into one of the bald-faced grinders when she'd first made her way out here--but he felt so damn good against her, and she could feel a hard bulge right between the crack of her ass. Her stomach clenched, and she could feel her arousal leaking into her pants. She gripped harder at his fingers, and as her thumb stroked over one of his calluses, she nearly stopped dancing altogether.

No way.

That callus, right there on his middle finger. She recognized it.

Her mind went blank, refusing to let the name run through her thoughts.  Was he really dancing against her right now? Shit. Did he know it was her? Oh, god. She didn't even know.

His hips still rolled against her in their perfect, sweet rhythm, and she realized that her body was still responding to him. Fuck. She really didn't want to think about anything else right now.

She threw herself into the pulse of his body, a steady pitter-pattering that synchronized with the beat of the drums. All she could think about was how delicious the way he moved against her was, and how she wanted more of him--if only.

He twitched behind her, almost unnoticeable, but she could feel how the bulge behind her strained now, hot and uncomfortable. It drove her over the edge--Clarke couldn't help it. She whirled around without warning and pulled herself on her toes. She knew exactly how tall he was, and she captured his mouth without a second thought.

She could feel him frozen in shock against her. For a few moments, he didn't move. Slowly, tentatively, he worked his lips against her, building a gentle pressure against her mouth that was almost unbearable. She wanted all of him. His arms flew around her and lifted her off her feet. Her legs immediately locked around his hips, not even pausing to think, to wonder--this was a dance all on its own.

He pushed them through the crowd until they were out of the frenzy, and then he backed up slowly, stumbling a little bit between heavy, desperate kisses, until his back hit the trunk of a tree. He pressed up against it, and she pinned him firmly down as they made out like their lives depended on it.

He felt so good against her. She'd never known this kind of thrill before. She cupped his face in her hands as she showered a trail of hot, wet kisses off to the side of his mouth, eliciting a low moan from him, but he roughly jerked her face back to his mouth. As soon as their lips collided, he bit down on the soft flesh of her bottom lip, and she shuddered underneath his hands. He soothed the nip almost immediately afterward with a gentle brush of his tongue, and she realized he was scolding her.

Damn, that was hot.

But he should know better than to encourage her like that. She released his lips and licked a stripe down his neck, and she savored the tremor that she drew out of him. Toward the bottom of his neck, she laid a siege of wet, suckling kisses across his collarbone, her hands raking across his chest to feel the hard bone and muscle underneath. He let out a soft growl, wrenching her back up to meet him, and she smiled innocently at him--not that she was sure he could see it.

His fingers entangled themselves into her hair, and he nudged her closer to him as moved his mouth against hers again. But this time, the kiss was different--slow, purposeful. Agonizing. Every time she tried to push closer to him, to deepen the kiss, he would yank her away from him. It was punishment.

She felt a deeply sweet ache from that knowledge. She reached up and unraveled his hands from her hair, pushing them down instead to the sliver of skin at her waist where the hem of her shirt had lifted. As soon as his fingers brushed against her bare flesh, a delicious thrill coursed through her. She moaned and pushed closer to him, snatching his lips into a deep kiss--and this time, he didn't stop her, tracing delicate patterns around her hipbones instead.

For a moment, Clarke hesitated. She wasn't sure whether or not she'd been too forward, if he'd try to take it too far right here and right now in front of everyone. She'd been with boys like that before, boys who didn't know any better and got too excited when she gave them permission to her body. But he wasn't stupid, and he kept his hands resting in the position she'd left them in. For a moment, she was relieved, and in the next, she felt disappointed.

The heat of his fingers trailing across her skin felt exquisite, and she wanted to feel all of him against her. She let out a small sigh against his mouth, and his grip on her tightened.

The music stopped without warning.

Clarke froze, blinking several times. She spun to look behind her, trying to shake herself off the heavy haze that her body had sunken into. The kids were yelling loudly, protesting: "What happened to the music?" They were all shouting at once, and everything was chaos.

Technical difficulties. Shit. Clarke didn't trust that new, brighter fires wouldn't be re-lit shortly after the death of the music to find out what was going on, and she wasn't really keen on letting the reality of identities ruin the night.

She jerked away from the embrace, disentangling her limbs with a twinge of regret. His surprise was almost tangible, but she ignored it, her jaw tight while she stalked away from him.

As she walked, Clarke took a deep breath and ran her tongue over her lips, knowing full well that they were probably too swollen to look normal. Luckily, the normal fires weren't back yet. She surged to the center of the commotion where Monty was standing, frantically trying to get the player to start again. "Clarke!" He called out when he saw her.

She pushed toward him, her mouth set in a thin line. "Is it fixable?" She shouted over the clamoring.

Monty hesitated, and then he made a face before shaking his head. "Not tonight, I don't think. I think something burned out--..."

Clarke turned to face the crowd. "HEY! EVERYONE, SHUT UP AND LISTEN, NOW!"

Her mother used to always tell her that she had a leader's voice, and she used it now, unapologetically loud. It rang throughout the forest even more intensely than the music had before it, and everyone shut up--whether out of respect or astonishment, she wasn't sure.

"The music's gone for tonight. Party's over, we're back to normal campfires. Go back to your tents."

A voice called out, irritated. "And do what?"

Clarke shot them a stern look. "Sleep. It's getting late."

"What if we're not tired?" Another voice protested.

Clarke threw her hands up in the air. "Then don't. Either way, no more of--this. Break it up, you guys."

She caught a lot of people shooting her nasty looks since she now stood so close to the green fire, but she let it roll off her back. They grumbled things under their breaths--what a "party-pooper" she was, how she probably wouldn't know fun if it slapped her in the face--and she sighed. They would probably never recognize her as the dancer that so many of them had eagerly welcomed into their folds only an hour ago.

She couldn't let it affect her. The priority was getting their discontent under control and capping it somewhere. If she kept trying to let Monty fix the player while they tapped their feet impatiently, waiting, or if she continued to let the squalor of the previous atmosphere continue under the dimly lit colored fires, it was trouble waiting to happen.

After a few, flickering moments, she was glad to see that Raven was restoring their normal fires. Clarke hopped down from the pedestal that she had been speaking from, and she caught Bellamy looking at her.

Shrugging her shoulders, she hurried off to her tent.



The next day, Bellamy walked into the dropship where Clarke was sorting through her medicinal herbs.

She turned around when she heard footsteps and watched as he propped himself against the doorway. "Can I help you?"

"Are we not even going to talk about it?" His lip was tight with anger.

Clarke turned away from him. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said brusquely.

"Really." Bellamy scoffed, looking away disgustedly. After a moment, he rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. "Fine. You don't know what I'm talking about." With that, he turned and left.

As soon as he was gone, Clarke's shoulders loosened, and she hung her head with bright surges of pink working their way into her cheeks. She wasn't sure why she didn't want to talk about it. For that matter, she wasn't sure what had happened last night--any of it--and she was scared of facing it.



Bellamy wasn't stupid. He knew it was her.

He knew it the moment he saw the curve of her shoulders when she stumbled into him in that crowd.

He knew those shoulders like the back of his hand.

If he didn't know better, he'd say she was drunk. There was alcohol being served last night, great kegs of it--courtesy of Jasper. But he'd been there earlier, and he knew she hadn't touched a drop. Besides, he'd been around her when she was drunk, and he could tell she had been in a clear state of mind.

He'd drank some, but he hadn't been drunk; he could hold his liquor, and he'd hardly had enough for that. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it had been her. Her hair was a distinctive blonde, catching the light of whatever fire she was closest to, and if he hadn't been sure before then--well, he was after that.

At first, he hadn't been sure if she'd recognized him. In truth, he didn't think she did. Not right away, at least. But after the dancing, he knew there was no way she couldn't tell it was him. There was something different about the way she moved: knowing, purposeful. She knew she wasn't kissing a stranger.

It pissed him off that she was trying to pretend it didn't happen.



Later that night, Bellamy sat around the main campfire, gnawing on a kebab of meat while some girls chatted him up.

Usually, he was supremely receptive to their suggestive looks, and he was every bit as flirtatious back to them. Tonight was different, and he found himself still trying to get over his earlier anger while vaguely listening to them.

The issue had weighed on his mind all day--when he and Clarke were dividing up various tasks among the members of the camp, when they had been organizing hunting-and-gathering parties, and even during their regular patrols. They always did everything together, so it was difficult to avoid her now. Worst still, she was really starting to get to him. She had been completely calm in everything she said and did, and it bothered him to think that she hadn't even thought about it.

Her presence never used to unnerve him so damn bad.

As the brunette asked a question, raising her eyebrows playfully at him, he halted his thoughts--and realized what she had been saying was only rhetorical. He made the appropriate thoughtful noise, and then out of the corner of his eye, he saw her.

She was off at another campfire, in a heated conversation with that guy--Finn--and they were exchanging intense glares at each other. He blinked at the sight of them, not understanding. Slowly, he tried to remember what had happened the night before, and a memory pushed to the front of his mind.

Raven, dancing all hot-and-heavy with Finn.

The realization sank in like a bucket of ice water. So that's what this was all about. He'd always known that she had a thing for him, that they'd shared something--who didn't, seriously?--but he hadn't known that that had carried over even after Raven's arrival.

He tightened his jaw, understanding now why "she didn't know what he was talking about". She didn't want him in the light of day.

He turned his attention back to the brunette, seeing her in a sharper focus now.



"Can we talk about us, please?" Finn's voice was urgent, but Clarke didn't want to hear it.

"I don't really want to, Finn," she said tiredly.

He furrowed his brow at her. "You keep saying that--but this is important. We need to talk about us."

Clarke threw her hands up in the air exasperatedly. "That's just it, Finn. There is no 'us'. There's you, and there's Raven--and there's you and Raven." She put great emphasis on the last part, glaring at him. "I'm not going to get in between that."

"I love her, but I'm in love with you." He didn't give her the chance to not hear it, staring at her with an intense expression. "I've known her all my life, and I'll never not love her--"

"Oh, Finn, I really don't want to hear this--"

"--but you should know that I'm in love with you. And every time I'm with her, I can't help thinking of you, and it's killing me," he said boldly.

Clarke's temper flared. "And what do you want me to do about it? Why are you telling me this?" She hated it; she hated what he was doing to her, boxing her up like this. He had no right.

"Tell me what's on your mind," Finn said softly, studying her with great care.

She heaved a deep sigh and opened her mouth, ready to refuse--and then she stopped. Out of the corner of eye, she noticed him. Bellamy, that is.

He was flirting unabashedly with a girl, leaning into her as she giggled at him with a coy flick of her wrist. Clarke could hear her shrill laugh carrying over to their campfire, and she bristled.

What the hell was he doing?

"Clarke?" Finn's voice sounded far away through the mist of anger that cradled her mind.

She watched them from where she sat, and her eyes followed him as he rose suddenly, her arm linked through his. They walked away from the campfire together, and it took only a quick glance to tell her what she already knew: they were heading for his tent.

Heat flared at the pit of her belly, and she couldn't even focus on Finn's words anymore. He was saying something else to her, watching her expression with confusion, and she pushed up sharply to her feet.

"Clarke," Finn called again for the umpteenth time. "Are you okay? What's wrong?" Clarke blinked at him, realizing he was still there.

Whatever. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and sat down again. I don't care. "Sorry, I-..."

"You what? Did you even hear me before? ...what's wrong, Clarke?" Finn reached over for her, his expression twisted into genuine concern. "It's okay if you don't--"

Clarke shoved him away suddenly, lifting to her feet again. "I'm sorry, I really have to go."

Without another word, she strode off after Bellamy, not quite understanding the anger bubbling in her chest. Why did the thought of him with another girl disturb her so deeply? It wasn't like she hadn't seen it before. She had, many, many times, barging into his tent to find him only to be greeted by the naked girls covered only in blankets. But it never threw her off like this.

His presence had been nearly unbearable all day, strong and domineering like he always was, without even a stray glance that told her he was even still thinking about last night. He was the one who had burst into the dropship and demanded that she remembered it. Well, what about him? And now here he was, moving on already. Had it even been twenty-four hours? That had to be a new record for not-caring.

She reached his tent and marched inside, her head reeling. She didn't know why she was doing this. She didn't know what she was doing. What was she doing, anyway?

The girl was clambered on top of him, straddled up close to his chest while his back arched up to meet her lips. Both of them were shirtless. They froze when she walked in, turning to look at her--but Clarke didn't say anything. She just stood there, glaring at him. Her lip was tight with anger.

Bellamy met her eyes unwaveringly, and there were a few moments of silence. Then, without taking his eyes off of her--"Morgan, I think you should go now."


"You heard me," he said flatly.

"You can't be serious." Her voice was full of disbelief. When her remark was met with silence, her shoulders tightened. "Fine." She tore away from him angrily and grabbed her clothes, leaving without another word.

After she was gone, Clarke still stood there, glaring, and Bellamy was still propped up on his elbows. "Well, come on then." He jerked his chin, inviting her. His expression was unreadable.

Clarke didn't need any more than that. She rushed forward, and his head lurched up to meet hers as she seized his mouth. Their teeth clicked against each other at first from the approach, but the sharp bite of his mouth sent a small thrill running through her.

She had no idea what the hell she was doing, but her mind numbed the instant their lips fell together. Yes. She needed this--the spreading heat in his mouth that set her ribs on fire, his soft breath fanning across her face, those dark eyes boring into her like he could see straight through her. His eyes flickered shut, and she couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he was yielding and responsive as he moved his mouth against her in hungry, gentle kisses.

She settled down into his touch, sliding her legs onto either side of him. As soon as she did, he skimmed his tongue against her lips, and she opened her mouth to let him in. He tasted like wood and earth rolling through her teeth, and Clarke couldn't suppress the small shiver that ran down her spine. She arched into the kiss more deeply as his fingers pressed into the small of her back, nudging her closer.

Her hands dropped onto his bare chest, deliciously flushed with heat, and she ran them down the hard planes of his body while her lips worked against his mouth with a frenzied fervor. She felt every curve and line, pressing the pads of her fingers against every muscle to leave butterfly reminders of her touch.

He responded to the roaming by nibbling frustratedly down on her bottom lip, clutching her even more tightly against him as his cock swelled against the fabric of his pants. When her hands moved down lower and lower as they explored, Bellamy abandoned her lips and traced harsh kisses along her jaw line, giving her sensitive flesh a light nip at the place where the bone of her jaw connected with her ear. He could feel the heat radiating off her body and bleeding into his own, and he wanted to know what it'd feel like to be inside of her.

Clarke shuddered at his biting, her head flooded with desire. Her wandering hands didn't relent, and when she reached the hem of his pants, she popped them open without batting an eye. But before she could do anything, Bellamy reached up and rolled her over without warning.

He pinned her down underneath him, his eyes searching hers. For a moment, she could've sworn that she saw a look of pure rage flit across his features. Clarke swept her tongue over her lips, wondering if he was reconsidering. She felt a hot wave of arousal push through her belly, trickling between her thighs, and she swallowed a small sigh. She really hoped not. His hips cradled her thighs in their current position, and she wriggled her own hips underneath him. When he jolted, she blinked back at him with her best innocent expression.

Bellamy bit down the unsatisfied moan that his body threatened to let out, his expression souring into a glare. He knew she did that on purpose. Two could play at that stupid game. He rocked his body sharply against hers, the hard bulge of his pants burying deep between her legs. She let out a small gasp, her legs involuntarily jerking up to lock around him--but she caught herself at the last moment. Her thighs loosened, and she shot him a look.

He caught himself grinning cheekily at her, and then he blinked. His smile faded. Fuck it. Anger pulsed through him--for doing this, for letting himself get so far--but he wanted her. Bellamy leaned forward and captured her lips in a kiss again, pushing her jacket off of her shoulders. Her bare arms snaked up around his neck as she moaned softly against his mouth, and she let out a small sound of protest when he parted from her again--but it was only to lift her shirt over her head. He cast it to the side as soon as it was off, and their mouths crashed together once more.

Damn, he loved the feel of her against his lips. She was so soft, and she smelled like everything that was good about the world--like fresh air and sunshine, like morning dew and crisp summer nights. His hands crept up the skin on her back, groping for the clasp at her bra, and then he snapped it away from her with a flourish that told Clarke nothing she hadn't already known--that he'd done this before many, many times. He yanked it off of her arms and she let him, their lips bumping against each other feverishly as he struggled against her murmuring neediness--seeking out his lips in a soft whimper every time he tried to pull away--to discard of the garment his hands had plucked away from her. Once his fingers had abandoned the bra, he pulled back with a sharp tug of restraint, and she fluttered her wide, doe-eyes at him. She was breathing hard, her lips swollen and pink, and her eyes were glazed with a look he was well-versed in. He held her stare for several, tense moments, and then he tore his gaze away.

His eyes raked down her body, drinking in every level and curve that she presented him with. Her breasts were round and firm, and they tipped into delicate buds at their ends. Currently, they stretched out stiffly to meet him. There was a number of appalling things he could admit to wanting to do to them--but not tonight. He lowered his eyes, at her pants still sitting firmly over her hips, and he swiftly unbuttoned them and jerked them down to her knees. She tugged at her shoes and kicked everything off, and they, too, were thrown off to the side.

Bellamy hooked his thumb at one side of her underwear and slid it down slightly. She made small noises of approval as her hips jerked into his touch. Warningly, he used both his hands to subdue her at her sides. When she'd stilled, he spread her legs carefully, and she sucked in a deep breath.

She was absolutely soaked down there. That knowledge alone tightened his already-stiff cock, almost the point of pain. He'd done that to her. Swallowing with difficulty, he fought to control his buzzing mind and brushed his fingers against her belly--sinking lower and lower until his hand found the folds of her sex, and he skimmed a finger over her slick arousal to settle on her clit.

Clarke was inhaling sharp, erratic breaths, and her heart palpitated when she felt him slide across where she wanted him the most. "Yes," she moaned. Bellamy shot her a glance, pleased with her response, and he pushed against it with a gentle pressure while rubbing up and down on her clit. A soft sound escaped her lips as she strained against him, and her head tilted back as the pleasure spread across her body.

"Look at me." His voice came out raspier than she was used to, and Clarke's eyes snapped open. His eyes bore into her, dark and bottomless. She could stare into those eyes forever.

His movement underneath her slowed, and she whimpered again, but his thumb swept over her nub instead. Once he had resumed his previous pace, his other finger slid across the slick moisture and thrust into her without warning. She jolted, and she sunk her nails into his back with a sharp hiss. She'd forgotten how big his hands were.

His fingers stopped. She felt his eyes on her, making sure she was alright. When the pain had subsided and only the pleasure remained, she gave a brusque nod. His finger buried inside of her began to move, agonizingly slow at first.

Damn, she was so small and tight. Bellamy worked inside of her cautiously, not wanting to hurt her. Once she seemed comfortable with his presence, he picked up his pace and his hand began fucking her in earnest. She'd been careful so far, letting out only small squeaks and gasps, as if she was aware of the thin material of the tent separating them from the rest of the world--but when he hit against a certain spot inside of her, she threw her head back and moaned. Her hips were trembling, and she had to fight to resist the urge to buck against him.

Once Bellamy understood--his mouth quirking up at the disgraceful noise that flew from her lips--he paid the spot special attention and began thrusting into it at regular intervals in a rhythm. Meanwhile, his thumb continued pressing up and down against her clit, and Clarke shivered against him. Goddamn, his hands. They were so big and warm and wonderful, and--oh, she'd always noticed the shape of them, the thickness of his fingers and how easily heavy lifting suited them, the way they closed around a gun sometimes, and how they curled to form a fist during other times. But--fuck--this was something else. She gritted her teeth, her jaw refusing to keep steady. She was close, and she knew it. The pleasure was building inside of her like a storm, and sweat trickled down her neck as she gripped at his shoulders.

Bellamy was sweating, too, but he wore the look better. She noted how the sheen glistened across his chest. It turned her on more than anything she could remember tonight--the sight of him working up a sweat on top of her, the weight of his legs wedged between her knees--and she was ready to come, when his fingers slowed suddenly and his thumb patted her clit in a soft caress.

No way. Clarke's mind blanked. He wasn't going to stop here, was he? "Bellamy," she pleaded with him--begging.

Her voice was so thick with desire that Bellamy couldn't resist meeting her eyes. He knew her fear as clearly as if she'd voiced it aloud, and he'd look amused if he could--but his mind was far too gone for that.

Instead, he unzipped his pants and pulled them down at last, freeing his engorged cock. Clarke stared, eyes huge with wonder as they traced its outline and followed its every curve. He allowed himself to enjoy the feel of her gaze washing over him before he grasped at her sides firmly. The head of his shaft rubbed against her slippery entrance, and she inhaled sharply. His eyes watched her carefully, and then he spoke.

"Are you sure?"

"Mm?" She moaned, rocking her hips against his groin to feel more of him.

Bellamy was momentarily distracted by a surge of pleasure, but then he jerked away and said, "Are you sure you want this? You can tell me if you don't."

Clarke blinked rapidly at him, and finally, she whispered, "Fuck me, Bellamy."

There was that unusual flash of resentment on his face again, but it was all the prompting he needed. He pushed inside of her--slowly, cautiously. She was steeped in desire, and his entrance into her was only a little painful. She could feel her muscles shifting to the full size of him, and his thumb rubbed over her clit again as he pushed deeper and deeper.

While her walls adjusted to take him in completely, she cried out as her climax tore through her. Her muscles clenched around his length, but he pushed in and out of her in quick, hard thrusts without stopping, elongating the pleasure while he continued to rub her clit.

Wave after wave of ecstasy rolled through her, and she clawed at his back helplessly, to get a hold of something, anything. As he felt the sharp sting of her nails, he pounded against her harder and harder with increasing urgency, until he had to bury himself into the crook of her shoulder. She heard his own, labored moans, and she could feel him twitching inside of her. Her cheeks flushed with even more heat, and she wished more than anything that she could see his face.

She came again when he erupted inside of her, surge after surge lining her walls and filling her belly, until she felt so full with him that she felt like she could burst from contentment. He was still shuddering from the spasms of his release, and she held him there in her arms on top of her until he stilled completely.

When he finally looked up at her, he didn't speak. His mouth was pulled into a tight line, searching her again. She wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, but finally, he pulled out of her. She nearly protested; she'd liked the feel of him inside of her too much, but she knew it was an irrational thought, and so she didn't. She kept waiting for him to say something, but he stayed silent.

Instead, he rolled away from her, and Clarke was left feeling cold. He wouldn't even talk to her. Did he feel that dirty?

Wordlessly, she sat up. His fluid was still leaking from inside of her, and she cautiously touched between her legs. At least he'd be inside of her until she washed him off. She crawled away from him, reaching for her abandoned clothes. As she slipped her underwear back on, she felt his eyes on her back.

Now he looks at me. Clarke would've said something to him, but she wasn't sure what he wanted from her.

"Are you sleeping here?" His voice was hoarse and low, and she couldn't read the exact emotion in it.

Clarke blinked back at him, surprised. "Can I?" She thought he'd wanted her to leave.

Irritation spread through his face, unmistakable this time, but it immediately softened into something else. "Yeah," he said. She studied his face, confused about his contradicting words, but his expression had shut down on her.

Dressed only in her underwear, she crawled back over to him, and he lifted up the blankets for her as she slinked underneath them with him. His scent washed over her, and the edge to her afterglow vanished. He smelled wonderful; he always did. It took away whatever doubts she'd begun fostering the moment she'd left his warmth.

Cautiously, his arm reached up to rest his hand on her stomach--as if he wasn't sure if she'd let him hold her. Clarke couldn't help a fond smile as she pressed her hand against his firmly, as if to give him her permission. Her hand fell away, and his fingers splayed out across her belly, trailing heat across her skin as he moved it up into a more secure position.

God, his hands really were huge. His palm took up almost the entire width of her body. She blushed, glad he couldn't see her face; she wanted to take his hands and cover them with kisses, wanted to trace every finger and place them over her heart, wedged between her breasts. Instead, Clarke bit her lip and shook slightly underneath his touch. She could feel him swallowing hard behind her, as if they were both acutely aware of the curve of her butt nestled into his groin.

It would be a long night, Clarke decided. She laced her fingers into his gently, but he gripped at her hand, refusing to let her go this time. She closed her eyes.



Clarke stirred from her sleep to the strange sensation of Her heavy lids fluttered open, and the tips of her eyelashes grazed against skin.

She blinked rapidly, not quite understanding where she was. For that matter, it was a little difficult to breathe, and she had the vague sensation of being smothered. It took her that next moment to realize that her forehead was pressed up against a broad chest, and a pair of sturdy arms were loosely wrapped around the back of her waist.

Oh. She pushed her head up, and the arms loosened their grip on her as she lifted her chin to stare at the man that they belonged to.

Bellamy's eyes were closed, breathing in and out at steady, peaceful intervals. His features had taken on the most unusual calm, in stark contrast to the twist of expressions he usually wore. He almost looked content.

Her lips quirked up in a smile. Clarke had never seen him this way before. It was a nice look for him. She shot a glance over her shoulder toward the flap of the tent where the morning light spilled through the cracks to greet her.

They had to start getting up.

She reached over, ready to shake him out of his slumber--but stopped short as one of his black curls dropped into his eyes, and he shifted ever-so-slightly until she caught an angle of his face that made her heart stop.

Clarke had never thought she'd see the day where she'd think of Bellamy Blake as "adorable", but here she was.

Her fingers froze only inches away from his shoulder, and she hesitated. Instead of landing on his shoulder, her hand reached up for his face, where she gingerly brushed the lock out of his eyes. He mumbled something softly against her touch, and his hand flew up to her wrist.

For a moment, Clarke thought she'd woken him. But he only fumbled for her, groping blindly at air. Her mouth twitched a little wider, her fingers trailing down his face in a caress as she retracted her hand.

She'd let him sleep a little longer.

Clarke dressed quickly, knowing that the early risers would be looking for her soon enough. As she pulled her jacket back on, she rested her eyes on his sleeping silhouette one last time before exiting through the flap.

She bunched herself up as small as possible when she emerged, knowing how suspicious it'd look if someone were to notice where she'd come from--and even more importantly, how flustered she would be when she couldn't even explain herself. But with each stride that she took, she grew more and more relaxed as she made her way across the campsite.

When she'd almost reached the main campfire where some of the early guard patrols were tending to the flames, she stopped again.

Finn stood before her, looking as unhappy as he had last night.

"You walked away from me," he told her flatly.

Clarke ran a hand through her hair, sighing. "I know," she said carefully. "I'm sorry. I was--...distracted."

"Where did you go?" He persisted. "I looked for you in your tent, but you weren't there."

"I took a walk to clear my head," Clarke lied.

Finn didn't look convinced, but he didn't push it. "I told you a really big thing last night. You never said anything back."

This again. Clarke's mind was still heavy with pleasant memories from the night before, and she'd really hate for him to ruin that now. On the other hand, she knew she had to stop running at some point and face what he was saying to her. "Look, Finn," she said slowly. "I don't want to do this anymore, okay? I...didn't know you had a girlfriend. I would've never done this with you if I had."

"I know," he said hurriedly, "but I--"

"No, let me finish. I think we could've had something, I really do. But I don't feel that way anymore about you, and I don't think you should feel that way about me." Clarke felt a gentle twinge in her stomach, and she didn't know if that last part was a lie or not. She hadn't had the proper time to sort through her thoughts yet, especially not with the events of last night.

Finn's face tightened. He didn't speak for several moments, but then he swallowed. "Okay." With that, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Clarke let out a sigh of relief, closing her eyes.



When Bellamy woke up, Clarke was nowhere to be found.

He'd stared at the empty space next to him for several, quiet moments. And then he'd peeled himself off his blankets and slowly dressed, refusing to let his thoughts wander.

But that was before he'd exited his tent and found Clarke standing not even a foot away from Finn--almost exactly where they'd left off last night.

A slow anger built inside of him, but he swallowed it down. I knew it.

He'd known when they started their little game last night, known it from the moment she entered his tent and glared at him with those heated eyes. He just hadn't been expecting her to pull his pants down.

He didn't want to take it that far, but she'd changed the rules.

Bellamy wished she had opted out when he'd asked. He'd given her so many chances to back down--but she was either an adrenaline junkie or insane. Either way, he just knew she was really, really sexy, and he'd be damned if he was the one to stop their little charade.

Except seeing her now with someone else darkened his entire mood, and he didn't do attachments. He had to stop thinking about her.


He turned at the sound of his name, and a redhead came bounding up to him, all smiles. "Bellamy, hey," she said, a little breathlessly. "What're you doing later tonight?"

His lips pulled into a thin, lazy smile.



When Clarke opened her eyes, she swiveled her head slightly to the side and nearly stumbled at the sight.

Bellamy was awake. He was standing on the other side of the camp, fully dressed now, with the usual crease marring his brow.

And he wasn't alone. There was a vivacious ginger next to him, touching his arm as she whispered something into his ear.

Clarke watched them for a few moments, unable to believe that they were so swiftly back to where they'd started. It was like last night had never happened. As he pulled his lips back into a smile for her, Clarke ripped her gaze away.

She'd just been one of his flings, after all.

Disappointment crashed through her body, and something else occurred to her: this was why she'd been so reluctant to discuss it with him yesterday morning. She'd been afraid of knowing that she didn't matter to him, either.

Clarke gulped down her resentment. Fine. She could learn to deal with it. She stomped off, determined to occupy her mind with more important matters.