"Maybe you think that you can hide-
I can smell your scent for miles.
Just like animals."
- Maroon 5, "Animals"
Octavia had the best of intentions. She really did. All she wanted was to help Bellamy find a decent roommate who could pay half the bills for his condo downtown while he finished up his Ph.D. Once her brother started working as a history professor at Arkadia University in the fall, his salary could more than cover things. He was an Alpha after all, and Alphas always earned at the top of their salary ranges. So while everyone was happy Miller was leaving to move in with his long-term boyfriend Jackson, it still left Bellamy high and dry for the spring and summer.
Clarke Griffin starting work as a nurse at Mount Weather Memorial during the same shift as Octavia was a true godsend. The polite but serious blonde was a recent graduate and confessed to Octavia at the end of her second week she'd been staying in a hotel until she found a place to live. Octavia's blue eyes lit up, turkey and cheese sandwich halfway to her mouth. The willowy brunette knew straightaway Clarke was a Beta like her - the only scent she'd picked up was the honey vanilla of her perfume.
"Oh my God!" Octavia cried out in pure glee. "You can live with my brother Bellamy! His roommate just moved out. This is perfect!"
"Your brother?" Clarke blinked a few times, tilting her head thoughtfully to the side. "I never really considered living with a guy--"
"Oh, don't worry about it!" Octavia set down her sandwich and brushed her hand through the air. "He's a total nerd and clean freak. Plus, he's getting his Ph.D. in history, so he's practically always at the library. His place has got a good view of the skyline. And you'd have your own suite with a bathroom."
Clarke sliced into the piece of salmon on her plate, filling her fork with a bite.
"How old is he?"
"He's 28, plays soccer and can actually cook you breakfast. I'm telling you, Griffin, you'll be thanking me for this! I'll take you on a tour of his place after work today."
Clarke bit her lower lip in indecision. But the truth was, Octavia's girlish enthusiasm was contagious. Plus, she hated having her parents foot the bill for her hotel as they'd insisted on doing until she found somewhere safe to live.
"Ok," she said slowly. "I'll come check it out if he doesn't mind."
"He's visiting our mom out in Factory this weekend, so it's the perfect time," Octavia smiled.
Clarke was a smart girl - she'd graduated with top marks from her nursing program. With a surgeon for a mother and a genetic engineer for a father (an Alpha and Beta match themselves), she also knew a little something about biology. The odds of siblings presenting differently from each other at puberty was less than five percent. Bellamy Blake in her mind was a Beta like his sister. She had no reason to suspect differently. Besides, her mother kept her on the strongest suppressants money could buy - not only did they act as birth control but they also made her monthly heats more manageable and less painful. Even in the presence of Alphas, she passed as the Beta her mother and father wanted her to be to protect her. From the time she turned thirteen and her mother had solemnly held the purple container in front her face with a white oval pill in her outstretched smooth palm, Clarke had taken one each day without fail. Their daughter not having agency over her own body was not an option for the Griffins. They knew exactly how tantalizing Clarke's pheromones would be to an Alpha on the hunt for a mate. So, Clarke was well schooled on the ins and outs of her "special condition," as Abby referred to it. But what she didn't know at first was that Octavia and Bellamy Blake were half-siblings with different fathers. No, that knowledge came later.
Octavia assured Clarke as she unlocked Bellamy's door that he'd given his permission for the tour. The condo was everything she promised it would be - spacious, full of sunlight, with every appliance she could ever need and a few she didn't know how to work. There was easy access to the trains that would carry her into the city for her job. Clarke spun slowly around the living room on Saturday afternoon with a hesitant smile on her face.
"Well?" Octavia wiggled her eyebrows.
"Ok, you're right. It's perfect!" Clarke blushed.
Octavia winked. "Told you so!" She whipped out her phone from a back pocket and a few seconds later, she had her brother on speaker.
"Hi Bell, I'm at your place with Clarke. You got a few minutes?"
"Hey, O." There was a moment's pause when he cleared his throat. "Hi, Clarke. Nice to meet you."
The first thing that struck Clarke was his voice. It sent a mild thrill straight through her body to her toes. But she shook her head and trained her attention on focusing.
"Hi, Bellamy. Nice to meet you too. Are you sure you're ok with me moving in?"
He chuckled, and she found she liked that sound even better.
"Yeah, I'm good with it. I trust my sister. Honestly, you're saving me a lot of hassle sorting through the crazies online. Miller left earlier than I thought, so you're doing me a favor."
Clarke smiled a little at the soothing tone and streaks of appreciation flooding his deep voice.
"Ok, then. Thank you so much. I promise I'll clean up after myself and split all the chores with you. You're saving me from the Internet weirdos too."
"Noted." Bellamy laughed. "Well I'm sorry I'm not there in person, but I'll be back next weekend. So go ahead and move whatever you want to in, and I'll help with whatever's left when you get back."
"Thanks, Bellamy. I look forward to meeting you."
"You too, Clarke."
The next week was a whirlwind of picking out a bedroom set with Octavia, shopping for curtains and fresh linens and making plans for her new furniture to be delivered on top of working. With the help of Harper from sports medicine and Jasper from radiology, Clarke moved all her clothes and personal items into Bellamy's place slowly but surely. By the time she'd signed the receipt for the movers and bid them goodbye with icy bottles of water to take on their way late Saturday afternoon, Clarke was exhausted. She collapsed onto the couch in the living room, Octavia flopping down beside her in a recliner.
"Babe, I've got to get a shower and get back home to Lincoln. His Aunt Indra is visiting, and he's making a special dinner. Are you sure you don't want to come?"
Clarke sighed but shook her head. She'd heard a lot about Octavia's motorcycle-riding boyfriend who owned his own art gallery but she had yet to meet him. Octavia called him a "gentle giant," and from all the pictures peppered across Octavia's Instagram, they looked very much in love.
"Thanks, but I think I'm just going to order Chinese and get caught up on the Real Housewives."
Octavia grinned. "All right, next time. Tell Bell to call me later, and I'll see you at work."
Clarke jolted upright as she watched her friend head for the door. She'd nearly forgotten Bellamy was coming home tonight. Now she almost wished she'd said yes to the dinner invitation. Something about meeting him alone - even though she just moved into his place - made her nervous.
Brushing it aside, she put in an order for chicken and broccoli in garlic sauce with crab rangoons, fumbling a little over her new address, before stepping into the shower. Twenty minutes later, she was pacing around the plush living room carpet in her yoga pants and a Lumineers T-shirt. In the background, an episode of House Hunters International played.
Suddenly, there came a solid knock at the door, followed by the turn of a key. It was Bellamy. It had to be. She knotted her fingers together in front of her and took a deep breath. It was his mess of dark curls she saw first through the gap in the door as he entered, smiling warmly at her with a quick flash of bright teeth. He rolled his bag into the hallway and set down a leather briefcase on the kitchen counter before making his way into the living room with a hand outstretched.
"Hi, you must be Clarke. I'm Bellamy."
Her eyes widened as his delicious scent hit her in a wave. Despite the suppressants, it was strong ... and intoxicating. She felt her body respond, a weakness building in her knees. The sense that struck her next was more profound than intuition. She literally sensed his nerves, his excitement, his arousal as if they were her own buried deep in her belly. She reached out her own small hand, still entranced, and shook his, only daring a quick glance up at his too-dark eyes.
"It's nice to meet you."
Bellamy's warm hand curled around hers, sure and firm. She gave a tiny yelp as he pulled her a couple steps forward. He was looking at her with the kind of awe people normally reserved for fireworks displays.
"Nice to meet you too, Omega."
Bellamy regrets his stupid moment of weakness instantaneously. Clarke's crystal blue eyes expand in fear at his words. Bellamy can sense it rolling off her, sharp and pungent. She tries to jerk away, but he holds her steady at the wrist.
"Please, wait." His voice cracks slightly at the idea of her rushing out the door. But his breathing calms after a second when he remembers she lives here now - it's not so easy to run. It immediately puts him at ease. His brain is still humming along a similar vein when he realizes her hand has gone lax in his grip, and she shoots him an expression full of something between surprise, intrigue, fear and distaste.
"I don't take my orders from you," she spits.
He grins despite himself. Bellamy is used to people catering to him - whether it's at the university or at the gas station - simply by walking confidently and throwing them a charming smile. But there's something about this young woman that ignites a fire in his bones.
"I'm not going to hurt you. That was wrong of me, I'm sorry. It's just that--" He runs his free hand through his hair with a touch of anxiousness. "Octavia never mentioned it. It caught me off guard."
Clarke's face hardens into something of a mask.
"That's because nobody knows," she grits through her teeth.
"What?" he barks out in confusion before he can think better of it, letting her hand drop. "You smell--"
"Careful how you finish that sentence," Clarke stands up straighter, narrowing her eyes at him. Still, the fact that she didn't run had to be a positive sign.
Good enough to eat was what he was going to say. But that wasn't an option. Goddamn it, Octavia. What had she gotten him into?
It takes a moment before the answer rises up in his brain.
"Suppressants?" he questions.
"The best ones," she replies crisply.
They had to be excellent for his own sister not to be able to tell when she worked at a hospital every day and constantly classified patients by their presentation.
Bellamy holds up his palms in supplication. "Easy. I just meant your scent gives it away." A flicker of confusion passes across his strong cheekbones. He can hear the swallow at the back of his throat. "At least to me," he finishes quietly.
Clarke takes a small step backward, her delicate feet padding in reverse on the wooden floor. But even in the low light coming from a nearby lamp, he can see her pupils dilate when she takes him in. He tries not to smirk - but he knows what this means. He can tell from the dawning comprehension that brings a gorgeous carnation bloom to her cheeks that she does, too.
"Alpha," Clarke whispers in a sweet, husky voice he wants to hear on a continuous loop. She bows her head in the universal sign of surrender.
This fiery, bombshell of a girl smart enough to take suppressants that will hide her true identity is submitting to him. Her Alpha. The thought alone makes his cock start to swell, and he's thankful for his dark, loose pants. He shoves down the urge to reach for her and bite a defining mark against the pale ivory of her neck. He's a moral, rational human being. He's going to make Clarke feel perfectly comfortable in his home if it's the last damn thing he does.
"There's no need for that."
It takes a few moments of the TV's droning behind them before she finally looks up at him again.
"What do you mean?"
"Octavia didn't tell you I was different, did she?"
Clarke shifts uncomfortably, wrapping her arms around her middle.
"She definitely didn't tell me you were an Alpha if that's what you mean."
He shakes his head. "No, that's not what I mean."
Clarke raises an eyebrow.
"Well it's part of it, but I've got--I guess you'd call it more control. Around unmated Omegas, I mean." Now he's starting to feel uncomfortable. But it's not like he's about to tell a total stranger that she doesn't need to fear him pinning her to a wall and pumping her full of his come for days on end. That just sounds crass.
Clarke's hands find their way to her hips in suspicion. "So you take them to dinner first before you help them through their heats?" She says the last part in air quotes. Her mouth's twisted like she just sucked on a lemon.
Bellamy snorts, still unsure why his familiar anger doesn't seem to be rising to the surface with this girl. She's getting away with murder as far as addressing a superior in their society goes.
"I mean I don't touch somebody unless she asks me to."
That doesn't seem to be the answer the little spitfire was expecting. She's still watching him with skepticism locked in her eyes, but there's a bit of shame mixed in there too, now.
"I'm sorry for being so rude," Clarke says more kindly. "It's nice of you to let me stay here on short notice."
"It's not like you won't be paying me for it." It comes out gruffly before he can think better of it.
Clarke's mouth twitches, but she makes no comment, just a noncommittal jerk of her head. They stand there in a sort of awkward, charged silence before she finally breaks it. He's glad because he sure as hell doesn't know what to say.
"You drove and you're probably tired," she offers. "Can I make you a cup of tea or something?"
The offer melts a fraction of the icy coldness building up in his chest. It's stupid that his body is already reacting to the very idea of not being able to take her to bed, ravish her, fill her with his come until she's pregnant. She's Octavia's friend, you fucking idiot, he scolds himself. She's your roommate. Act like a person, not a predator.
"That would be great," he says in as controlled a voice as he can manage.
Even though Clarke has only been in his place for a week, his kitchen already feels homier with her bustling around it. He notices new checkered, blue-and-white hand towels, fancier soaps and a top-notch, shiny silver juicer sitting on the counter.
"Health nut are you?" he tries for polite.
"I'm a nurse, Bellamy. Excuse me for incorporating more vegetables into my diet."
He rolls his eyes from where he leans against the counter. It's been too many years of Octavia nagging him about cutting down on the cheeseburgers and monitoring his cholesterol.
There's tension gathering in his neck and up the side of his face, settling into his jaw as a sharp twinge. Clarke seems to zero in on it moments after he does as she pulls out the tea kettle, further proof of his theory.
"Are you ok?" she asks before his hand moves up to rub it.
"Fine, just a little headache."
"The tea should help."
He mumbles his agreement.
"How was your mom?" Clarke asks in what he thinks must be an attempt to lighten the mood. "Did you have a good trip?"
"Yeah," he scratches at the back of his neck, trying and failing to avoid her questioning eyes. "She had me help her plant a vegetable garden."
"What? Is she some kind of health nut?" Clarke mumbles sarcastically before turning around.
He'd be angrier if he couldn't sense the amusement wrapping itself around the edges of her petite figure like kite ribbons floating in the breeze. She begins opening each cabinet along the wall before abruptly closing it when she presumably doesn't find tea bags waiting directly within. By the fifth time she does it, peering at the bottom shelf in annoyance, he's found his way beside her, reaching over her head to pull down a box of Earl Grey from the top shelf.
"Here you go," he hands her the cardboard package. He feels a jolt of electricity course through them when his fingers brush against hers.
Clarke's penetrating blue eyes land on his coffee-colored ones. Bellamy knows she senses it too - the low pulse of arousal spikes through her, altering her scent to something akin to sugar cane.
"Bellamy?" she asks softly. They're standing only a foot apart.
"What do I smell like to you?"
Like something I can't have.
His eyes search hers for a long minute. He wants to run his fingers through her blonde hair, and he's only known her fifteen minutes.
"Like the woods after a rainstorm."
She tilts her head to the side, exposing her neck to him, considering. He licks his lower lip at the silver, rectangular pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat.
"And that's a good thing?"
He can't help it. Just this once. Bellamy lets one hand settle on her hip before leaning forward, so his lips graze against her ear.
"It's my favorite thing."
There's a sharp intake of breath right below him.
"Tea," Clarke insists forcefully. "I'm making you tea, and then you're going to get some sleep."
Clarke's heart is beating like she just smashed through the finish line of the Boston Marathon. All she's doing is laying in her new bed, staring up at the ceiling fan as it whirs around and around. But now that he's here, now that she knows Bellamy is an Alpha, she just doesn't see how this housing arrangement is going to work out. She's been raised to be independent, smart and constantly aware of her surroundings. Her parents taught her to read people, to assess situations and keep herself safe. Her suppressants are top-of-the-line, newly developed by Dr. Lorelai Tsing in her covert genetics lab at Mount Weather. They're meant to keep Alphas at bay.
Yet Bellamy wasn't deterred. He could smell the Omega clinging to her skin almost as soon as he walked through the door. His dark eyes had been kind enough when he drank his tea with her at the kitchen table an hour ago. Nevertheless, her senses were aroused by the musky woods scent of him, and she was still a few weeks out from her heat. He'd demanded nothing of her, simply made polite small talk about his studies and asked her a few questions about her job. Yet the urge to submit sat right at the top of her lungs like an anchor. Clarke knew it would get worse with each passing day, this strange urge to reach out to him, slide her lips to his neck and taste him, feel his weight pressing her body down. But she didn't have another place to live. Sighing and pushing the heavy blanket down toward her knees to avoid its heat, she rolls over onto her side and prays for sleep.
She keeps her door locked just in case.
When the faint yellow light of dawn begins creeping past her wooden blinds, Clarke wakes from a restless slumber. Thin streams of sweat stick her blonde hair to her forehead and neck. There are faint wisps of a dream curling away like smoke even while she tries to cling to them. A strong arm wrapping around her waist as she looks out at a field of crops below spanning out to the horizon line where trees take over. It was a man speaking to her, kissing her temple she thinks. There was a flash of black and then he was walking away from her, off somewhere she couldn't follow. He turned once to look back, but his face was blurred. She felt safe with him. That was the main thing. Safe and very warmly held. She tries to snuggle back into her blankets to preserve the feeling, recreate the dream experience, but it's no use. Though at some point she must drift back to sleep.
Two hours later, her blue eyes open and take in her surroundings. Immediately, dread fills up her body, coating it in an icy splash as she remembers. An Alpha's house. That's where she is. A danger zone.
She's halfway to her door, fresh towel in hand to take to her shower when a knock sounds from the other side.
Your Alpha wants to see you. It pulsates in her body like a knowing. No, shut up. He's not my Alpha. Her rational brain takes over for a moment, ever the good soldier. Yes, he is, answers the teasing lilt of her blood on fire. Go to him. Do as he asks of you.
"Yeah?" she calls hesitantly, unwilling to see him yet this early before she's even thought up a resistance strategy. Is there even a strategy that would work?
"Clarke? It's just me," Bellamy's deep rumble finds her. He sounds unsure himself.
Just him. Like there's anything insignificant about his presence.
It makes her snort. The pull to open the door surges from somewhere too low in her hips for her liking. "I, uh, I wanted to know what you like to eat for breakfast."
That catches her attention. Frowning, she walks forward and pulls open the door. Perhaps she should have been prepared for Bellamy Blake in a tight-enough white T-shirt, but she isn't. It contrasts so well with his caramel skin and highlights his biceps in a way that makes her catch her breath.
You need to research alternative apartments now, Griffin.
But then another little voice takes over quite without her permission. Greet your Alpha. Nothing like this has ever happened to her before, and she works with enough Alpha doctors at the hospital to populate a small town. Her tiny intake of breath is enough to make Bellamy's eyes flash from hesitance to surety in an instant. She's well aware her open mouth and stupid blinking doesn't help matters.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Bellamy grins down at her. "Didn't take you for such a princess."
Her eyes narrow, and her lip curls upward.
"I work long hours all week. I like to sleep in on the weekends if that's all right with you."
Apologize to your Alpha the voice practically screams, but she tells it to fuck off because the lethal smirk he's shooting her now is downright annoying.
"Sure," he says easily. His gaze slowly dances down from her eyes to her torso and legs before arriving back at her face. His want is intense, even though she can feel him trying to mask it. She blazes in response. All she's wearing are lavender sleep shorts and a black tank top. Bad wardrobe call, Clarke. "Anything you want to do is just fine with me."
"I want to take a shower," she grits.
Embarrassment has truly never felt this suffocating. She tries to push past him to the bathroom down the hall, but he throws his arm straight out into her path. Clarke stumbles into it, feeling her breasts push into the tautness of his muscles before drawing back immediately. Bellamy's eyes jump to hers, and he steps into her space with no hesitation, using his other arm to fully box her in.
"I just wanted to know what you wanted to eat," he lowers his voice like they're sharing a secret. "At least one of us should get their first choice."
Clarke's eyes widen as the words land. Bellamy's so near though and warm like a fire crackling on a cool autumn night. The pleasant kind of burning.
"I don't need you to cook for me." It comes out a little too strangled.
I should be cooking for you.
"I like to cook," he argues back. "I don't mind. Easier to make a meal for two people anyway."
Her stomach flips at the idea of eating with him. Suddenly, it's all too much. Clarke's hands fly to his sides in an attempt to push him away from her. The crushed cinnamon wafting off him is going to send her into a tailspin.
"Omega," Bellamy says warningly, hand encircling one of her wrists like it's nothing.
It's everything. She's going to combust. The word alone flips a switch in her mind.
"I'm sorry, Alpha," she drops her eyes to the floor, trembling slightly despite the anger foaming in her stomach. She quickly stops her attempt to break free.
Nobody has ever pulled a submissive response from her. Not one soul. Yet she can't help but obey this man she met just twelve hours ago despite her inner urge to rebel and run.
Her action makes Bellamy still. He lets go of her wrist, allowing it to fall limp at her side and takes a step back. He clears his throat, shakes his head.
"You have nothing to apologize for."
She stares at him. Rippling waves of disgust are emanating from his body now. It confuses her, stabs at her insides. She's upset her Alpha, made him ashamed of her. But ... no. His next words are too kind for that to be it.
"I'm serious. Now tell me what you want for breakfast." He clears his throat, sinks his hands into the pockets of his light-wash jeans and looks away. "Please."
When Clarke dares to glance up at him, his jaw is ticking noticeably. She wants to press her fingers to it and soothe the franticness he feels.
"Will you make me pancakes?"
His shoulders slump in relief as she gives in. "As long as you don't leave when I'm in the kitchen."
It's strange, how scared he sounds by that possibility. Where the hell would she go anyway? Back to the hotel? To Octavia's house to rant and rave about the girl's beloved big brother?
Clarke shakes her head, raises her eyebrows. "I won't. I'm going to take a shower," she gestures down the hall toward the bathroom. "Be out in a few minutes."
Bellamy licks his lips but keeps his eyes on hers this time when he nods.
Her hand is on the door handle when she catches what he says next. "I'll be waiting."
Bob Morley and Eliza Taylor are married, and I have never felt more happy about something that has absolutely nothing to do with me. So here, have a chapter.
Clarke's not sure how she makes it through breakfast. From the moment Bellamy places her dish of fluffy blueberry pancakes in front of her and sits down a little too close, her nervous system flips straight into overdrive. Her palms sweat enough to nearly drop the fork he hands her. And his obnoxious smirk only expands when she gestures at the table where he's laid out bacon, scrambled eggs, fruit, sliced avocado and some sort of green drink - did he actually use her fucking juicer? - and comments about the spread.
"Are you expecting a small army?"
"No," he snorts, slicing into his own pancakes and taking a bite before continuing. "But you made such a big deal about your love for nutrition yesterday, I wanted to make sure you got everything you needed to start the day right."
Her eyes helplessly follow the tiny drop of syrup he licks off his bottom lip.
"So do you?"
Her fuzzy mind takes a second to focus. She was too wrapped up watching his pupils expand and freckles dip into the bridge of his nose when he smiled.
"Do I what?"
"Have everything you need."
She practically chokes, slamming the side of her fist into the space below her collarbone. Your Alpha cooked you a lovely meal. Thank him.
"Everything is fine, thanks."
He makes a small, amused noise, mumbles "you're welcome" and proceeds to eat in what he might take to be comfortable silence. Who the hell is she kidding? Try as she might to repress it, she can feel his satisfaction seeping out of his pores. But why? Because she's sitting with him? She doesn't like to flatter herself, but there's something very content about his energy.
Yet there's nothing comfortable about this situation in Clarke's mind. She fidgets constantly, running her fingers through her hair or reaching down to scratch at her ankle bone as several minutes of chewing tick by. Bellamy smells like the ocean today - all salty air thick on the tongue and the warm flavor of coconut. It's making her salivate, and it's not a good look.
"I'm making a coloring book."
The words are blurted out suddenly, and there's no taking them back.
Bellamy raises an eyebrow. "That's nice?"
"It's for one of my pediatric patients, Madi. She's four and really loves flowers. She has asthma and got sick with pneumonia, so she's staying at the hospital while we monitor her, at least for a few days. I figured I could draw some garden pictures, you know, like Edenesque with vines and butterflies and maybe some wild animals, and she could color them in. Take her mind off things."
She forces herself to stop there, mortified to have just revealed so much information to him. Bellamy is sending her a grin that could light up the midnight sky.
"That's very sweet of you. Are you that attentive to all your patients?"
Bellamy's got an eyebrow raised like the question is stemming from genuine curiosity and not the mocking she feared. It helps something relax in her chest.
"No," she sighs. "I guess not. It's just Madi's so... young and small and scared. Her parents work long hours and can't be with her as much as they want, so--"
"You wanted to help," Bellamy fills in with the confidence of someone who's known her for years.
"Well," Clarke rips a piece of bacon in half, letting the grease pool on the pads of her fingers. "Yeah."
He considers her as she puts a bite of bacon into her mouth self-consciously.
"So you're something of an artist?"
"Yes, uh, sort of." Her fingers twist in the napkin in her lap. "Drawing helps me relax sometimes. I took a few art classes in high school and college, but I haven't done anything serious with it."
"You might one day."
It honestly shouldn't affect her, the casual way an Alpha is telling her she could pursue something that isn't of obvious use to society, just because she wanted to. Still, his words stir up the thinnest flame of hope in her chest. No Alpha has ever taken any interest in her personal passions. In fact, her parents have always reiterated she must make herself very useful to earn her food, her shelter, her place in the larger world. It's the best way to blend in and never be suspected for what she truly is. If she wants to pass as a Beta, she must faithfully serve like Betas do. Be the fabric of Arkadian society so to speak. It's just how things work.
Alpha sees potential in you. He's being kind. You don't deserve it. You've proven nothing to him yet.
Shut up, she snaps back ferociously to the annoying part of herself ceaselessly fueled by her biology.
"Excuse me?" Bellamy says sharply.
Shit, she said it out loud. Clarke swiftly bows her head.
"I was talking to myself, not you. Ignore me."
"That would be impossible."
His tan fingers brush over the back of her hand so unexpectedly that she doesn't even yank it away. A fresh wave of heat rolls up from her belly, sloshing over her ribs and across her chest.
Finally, she returns to her senses.
"It's pretty good, all of it," she gestures to the food in a wild attempt at nonchalance. Her hands are even waving through the air like an air traffic controller - a sure sign of her nerves. "Octavia said you could cook, but-"
"You didn't believe her?"
Do not insult your Alpha. Do NOT insult your Alpha.
His dark eyes are playful when her own meet them.
"Let's just say I'm pleasantly surprised."
His laughter is warm and affirming. But then he's leaning forward, one large palm braced on her upper thigh under the table, scalding her with its heat.
"It's something I could show you, Princess. One of a few things I could show you."
"Ugh," she immediately crashes her chair back in the direction of the wall. "Save the innuendos for someone who wants them, Bellamy!"
He stands as she does, and they eye each other from several feet apart. She can hear her own panting despite her desire to breathe normally.
Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest. "Whatever you say."
Clarke huffs and moves toward the hallway. He can clean up the breakfast dishes himself, the arrogant ass.
"It's a nice perfume you're wearing by the way," he calls out to her retreating back. "What's the name of it? Arousal?"
So with all her inner rage brewing about the suppressants not keeping her scent under control in Bellamy's presence, the gym seems like the only logical outlet. Clarke makes a full circuit around Phoenix Fitness, sweating up a storm on the elliptical, treadmill and even at the weight lifting station. She's practically parading herself in tight black yoga pants and an emerald green sports bra in front of known Alpha Cage Wallace (his father Dante owns half the neighboring town of Mount Weather) as she passes him in the hallway outside the locker rooms. But he does no more than grin at her in that friendly way of his and ask her how she's settling into Arkadia. So no, there's nothing wrong with her suppressants. God damnit. She doesn't even want to think about what that means.
Clarke is too hyped up to go back to Bellamy's - her - their - G O D - whatever - place. So she heads to the nearest juice bar instead (since she didn't finish the breakfast drink) and then promptly holes herself up in the nearest bookshop because it's about damn time she started reading A Game of Thrones. After buying two books (neither of them A Game of Thrones), she stops by the pet shop because on alternate Sundays they run a kitten adoption program and who doesn't want to play with adorable grey kittens with white patches behind their ears?
By the time she makes it home, the sun is setting, and there's no sign of Bellamy anywhere when she pads quietly into the condo. There is, however, a note on the kitchen table with instructions for warming up the paella he made (really????) in the oven. Clarke drums her nails on the countertop then decides locking herself in her room is really the best and only course of action. She needs to finish sketching out Madi's coloring book anyway before her shift tomorrow. She heats up some soup for herself around 11 p.m. when she's sure he's asleep.
Bellamy wakes up groggy and bleary-eyed about four minutes before his alarm is set to go off Monday morning. It doesn't take long to realize Clarke's already gone to work. Her room looks like a hurricane hit it when he walks by - the bedsheets are all tangled. Clothes are strewn across the floor. There's even a bowl of half-eaten cereal resting on her dresser. It's clear she couldn't get out of here fast enough.
The thought disappoints him, but it also makes his stomach clench unpleasantly if he's being honest. It's not like he wants her to be uncomfortable. But ... it's also not entirely like he can help it. He isn't some dickhead who believes he's a slave to his sexual urges or anything like that. Still. That full, pouty mouth of hers, the curves all over her body, the way her blue eyes lit up when she talked about art and helping that little girl. The way she tries to act like she's not an Omega around him. Not his Omega. God it's all driving him insane. So, sure. Sometimes he might go a little overboard. But he can reign it in. He can. Bellamy punches the doorframe once to snap himself out of it and takes a few deep breaths.
His eyes flick to the small, wooden desk in the corner that Miller left behind and sees Clarke's charcoals strewn across it along with her ... homemade coloring book. Out of nowhere, he's smiling to himself.
Fortunately, the class he was TA-ing today doesn't start until after lunch, which leaves him plenty of time to swing by Mount Weather Memorial to drop the coloring book. He knows it's important to her. At least, that's what he keeps repeating to himself on the drive over there to stop the doubt creeping into his mind about the visit. But, hell, he's dropped in on Octavia in the past. If all else fails, he'll just leave the book at the front desk and ask when his sister has her next break.
The hospital floors gleam, and the hallways smell mildly of fruity antiseptic. It's Maya who's behind the desk when he arrives, and she smiles up at him kindly. She's definitely one of the more intellectual Betas he knows.
"Hey, Bellamy! Looking for Octavia?"
"Hi, Maya," he grins back at her, maybe a little broader than he usually would and leans forward across the counter in a laid-back pose. "I do want to catch up with my sister when she's free, yeah, but I also have this," he holds up the coloring book for her to see, "to give to one of your nurses."
Maya's forehead crinkles momentarily, but Bellamy passes her the book when she reaches for it, and soon a delighted expression takes over her features.
"This is so cool!" she exclaims. "Is it for a patient? Who made it?"
"Yeah, uh--" he rubs at the back of his neck. "It's for a little girl named Madi I think. One of your nurses, Clarke Griffin? She made it."
Maya's brown eyes slowly rise up to find Bellamy's face, and he really hopes he's not blushing but can't be sure. From the savvy flick of her eyebrows, he's pretty sure he's failed on that front.
"It's so nice of you to hand deliver it then."
"She just forgot it at my place, so I ... "
Shit. Now Maya is fucking smirking at him.
"You want me to call her down, so you can give it to her personally? I'm sure she'd appreciate the gesture."
He hates it when people make fun of him, even when it's good-natured. He likes Maya, he does. But she doesn't get it - everything's not the way she thinks.
Bellamy pulls himself up to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest and letting his biceps flex. Clearing his throat, he lowers his voice an octave and tries to make it as silky as possible.
"Can you tell me where she's stationed please?"
When he finds her, she's behind the nursery glass, rocking a tiny bundle of blue blanket back and forth in her arms and giggling down at, making cooing faces. It hits him square in the chest, knocks the wind out of him. A moment later, his mind is spinning up a picture of a tan, crinkly baby with chubby cheeks nuzzling his head against her breast, of her ivory fingers petting the top of his downy, dark hair. Before all the blood can drain from the top half of his body, he wraps lightly on the glass.
Clarke whirls around. Her eyes open wide as silver dollars. She bundles the baby back into his basinet and hurries to the door. Then she's standing right in front of him, hands on her hips, and annoyance in her cheekbones.
"Bellamy! What are you doing here?" she hisses as a doctor flips through a chart passing by them.
"Good morning to you, too," he tries for suave but his voice breaks the smallest amount. "I'm visiting my sister," he points to the badge pinned to his shirt. "Also, you forgot this."
He passes the coloring book into her surprised hands. "Figured I'd bring it before I head to school. I haven't seen O since I went home, and this was on my way."
Her small hands are frozen around the curling pages, and when she looks back up at him, she's bitting that pretty pink lip of hers.
"It was on your way, huh?"
He shrugs, feeling his heart rate kick up. He might be hallucinating, but there's something like amusement pulsing around her.
He shoves his hands into his pockets. "It was," he said in a way he hopes ends the conversation.
"Ok," she glances back down, arching her head to the side. He instantly wishes she hadn't. It exposes her neck to him. He can practically taste her scent glands from here. He longs to sink his teeth into them. "Thank you."
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"I guess not," she says, clipped. But then she surprises him with-- "Do you want to give it to her yourself?"
"Yeah, sure. I'd like that."
She nods and motions for him to follow her down the long, well-lit hall.
Bellamy washes his hands (with lots of soap) in the heated spray she insisted upon before he could enter Madi's room. He accepted the blue gown to pull over his clothes but drew the line at the face mask and hair cap.
Clarke actually laughs at his expression when she motions for him to put the cap on over "that floppy mess on his head." But one stern clench of his jaw and mutter of, "Behave, Omega," silences her. He wasn't trying to tell her what to do exactly, but he takes note of her instant submission all the same. It's so similar to her response back in his hallway.
"You looked good back there in the nursery," Bellamy says softly, hoping his tone conveys that he's not mad at her.
"What do you mean?"
"With that baby, you looked good. Holding a child suits you."
Clarke blinks and clears her throat then starts stepping back in the direction of the door to Madi's room. She nods awkwardly before motioning him forward. "Come on, the shifts are changing in ten minutes."
Clarke truly can't believe what's unfolding before her eyes. Madi's been fussy and red-faced since morning, throwing temper tantrums that sent two nurses running for the hills and sobbing for her mother. So when Bellamy strolls in with a calm, "Hi, Madi. I'm Bellamy. Clarke's told me all about you. How are you feeling, sweetheart?" and the child instantly quiets and stares back at him with wide blue eyes and a hesitant smile, Clarke finds herself rooted to the spot.
"You look like my daddy," she tells him shyly, reaching out with little grabby hands for one of his.
Bellamy glances up and Clarke, and she realizes he's asking for her approval. She shrugs and nods, clearly at a loss. He sinks down on the side of her bed and lets her take one of his much larger hands between both of hers where she proceeds to examine his knuckles like they fascinate her.
"I have a younger sister who looked a lot like you when she was little," Bellamy throws Madi a smile that would make the sun jealous. Clarke feels a small patch of buttery warmth melt in her stomach and is immediately annoyed with herself.
Madi notices the handmade coloring book bound together with ribbon in Bellamy's other hand.
"It's a gift for you. Clarke made you a coloring book to help you feel better."
Madi smiles fully and takes it from him in wonder. She flips through the pages carefully for a four-year-old and squeals out "flowers!" after a few seconds.
Clarke knew flowers were her favorite because almost all her get well cards from friends and family feature them. There are also several colorful bouquets decorating the room.
"Can you tell Clarke thank you? She worked hard making that for you."
Bellamy's warm rumble vibrates through Clarke. It's lower and just a tad authoritative but still kind and gentle. She's not sure how he pulls off the balance.
"Thank you, Clarke! It's pretty! Flowers!" Madi motions her over and Clarke drifts nearer, trying to leave some room between her body and Bellamy's knees. His scent is pulling her in even though her rational mind is screaming at her to resist.
Your Alpha is pleased with you. He thinks you'd make a suitable mother. No, shut up. Shut Up. SHUT UP. The moment the thought zips through her head though, Clarke knows it's true. She feels the sentiment emanating from Bellamy as clearly as if he'd said it aloud. In a haze, she starts checking her patient's fluids.
"Will you color with me?"
Madi's question breaks through Clarke's tumbling thoughts. His answering chuckle is soft.
"No, I'm not really great at art. But I can, uh, tell you a story about a magical garden? Would you like that?"
"Yay! Story!" Madi claps her hands together gleefully.
It turns out Bellamy's story is an ancient myth she's not familiar with. Something about three Hesperides being nymphs of the sunset who took care of a garden at the western end of the world, near the Atlas Mountains in Africa. Clarke catches snippets of the tale here and there while reviewing Madi's latest chest x-ray, fluffing up her pillows and bringing her a fresh glass of water with the next dose of children's Tylenol. Anything to do something with her hands and not see Bellamy's watchful eyes on her. The nymphs' garden belonged to a goddess named Hera and held a grove of apple trees with golden fruit that offered immortality to anybody who ate them.
"What's im-mor-al-ih-tee?" Madi is already getting drowsy from the medicine. She's fallen back on her pillows but not under the blankets. Instead, her little feet are propped up in Bellamy's lap, as comfortable as you please.
"Immortality," Bellamy smiles at her then winks at Clarke. "It means you live forever."
"Oooohhh," Madi says wisely, looking between the two of them.
"Is Bell-me your hub-bend, Clarke?"
"What?" Clarke stops her perusal of Madi's blood work where Madi's illness has been traced back to a virus. There's amusement flowing off Bellamy like a waterfall.
"No, sweetheart," he quickly jumps in. "We just live together."
She glares at him, pursuing her lips.
When Octavia catches up with them a short while later, she catapults into Bellamy's arms, and he swings her in a half-circle before putting her down in the main lobby.
"Good to see you, big brother!" she punches him on the arm. "You keeping him in line, Clarke?"
Octavia turns her pretty face toward her friend, expression perfectly angelic.
"Oh, um, er--" Clarke shifts around in her navy blue scrubs colored to look like the night sky. There's a teasing glint in Bellamy's eye when he catches hers.
"Yeah, you keeping me in line, Princess?"
Octavia looks back and forth between them, hands finding their way to her hips.
"What the hell am I missing?"
Clarke sucks in a breath. Please don't say I'm an Omega, she silently pleads as if Bellamy could pick up on it.
Clarke gives a weak, dry laugh. "He's a total nerd, just like you promised," she drops her voice into a conspiratorial whisper that's still pretty loud. "He even told Madi some kind of Greek myth today like he'd swallowed a classics textbook."
She pushes lightly against Bellamy's shoulder before walking off to her next charge. His questioning eyes snap swiftly to hers, and it's hard to hide her sharp intake of breath. "See you guys later!" she calls over her shoulder, trying not to allow the weakness flooding her legs to show.
By the time Clarke gets home, she's utterly exhausted. Bellamy's sprawled out along the long, black leather couch watching something that certainly can't be The Handmaid's Tale but is definitely The Handmaid's Tale.
He sits up, shoving a knit blanket off himself while she toes off her shoes.
"Can't believe you're watching that," she mumbles toward the wall.
His hearing has got to be pretty goddamn spectacular though.
"Why?" he asks drily.
"Because it's all about feminism and the oppressed people rising up to topple a corrupt society."
"And you don't think that's my speed?"
Clarke's standing beside the recliner now, blinking down at him. Excitement is building like a layer of sunscreen on his skin.
Do not argue with your Alpha. He was good to you today. Jesus, do you even hear yourself, Clarke? Who the hell are you?
"No, I don't." She raises her pointy chin a degree, daring him to argue.
"I was raised by a single mother, Princess. Maybe I'm all about that rah-rah feminism."
There's not much light in the room except what comes from the paused TV screen. But what limited light there is plays on the cut lines of his bronze cheekbones and flickers in his brown eyes watching her intensely. Clarke makes a noncommittal gurgling noise in the back of her throat, unable to deal with the truth she senses is laced in his statement.
"You're full of surprises, Blake. I'll give you that. But I'm going to bed," she settles on, taking a step toward her room.
She gasps when Bellamy's fingers encircle her wrist.
"Stay for a little while. Please." It comes out as a polite murmur. "We'll watch what you want. And this couch is good for sleeping."
Clarke blinks several times quickly.
"I'm not sleeping with you," she hurtles out the words like they're on fire in her mouth.
Bellamy's laugh is short and not as cold as she anticipated. "I got there all on my own, thanks."
Clarke makes a hmph noise.
"Well just because you're an Alpha, I don't want you thinking--"
Not just an Alpha. Your Alpha.
"I already told you I don't force myself on women."
"Then why?" She's afraid he'll capture her hesitancy and her suppressed desire without her saying anything more.
"Because I barely saw you today."
His fingers are stroking a delicate pattern on her wrist now. She's allowed it to go limp, unconsciously leaning into the heat of his touch.
"You came all the way to the hospital to bring me a coloring book, Bellamy," she corrects, raising an eyebrow with as much sarcasm as she can muster.
"Because you worked hard on it. It was important to you."
She's not sure when he got a lobotomy, but his eyes are so solemn on hers that this conversation is swiftly becoming an out-of-body experience. Clarke huffs, clearly torn.
"Fine, fifteen minutes, tops," she finally decides. "And we're watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine."
Bellamy nods. She's about to spin around to fall bonelessly into the recliner when he tugs her toward him by the wrist. Caught off balance, she collapses forward without much grace at all, her knees landing on either side of one of his muscular thighs.
"You're horrible," she growls, shoving at his shoulder.
"Don't know my own strength," he lilts back. "But if you stay, I'll rub your shoulders. How does that sound?"
"Like you're so fucking full of yourself," Clarke hisses so she won't be too distracted by his spatter of freckles.
"Settle down, Omega," he rubs his palm along the side of her waist, and she has to stop the keen from rising up in her throat. "You've had a busy day." He maneuvers her easily into a sitting position with her legs sprawled out along the length of the couch, and she feels him shift up onto his knees behind her before grabbing the remote. Clarke's hyper aware of where his kneecaps nudge against either side of the base of her spine. But she almost jerks forward when his hands press down simultaneously on the tops of her shoulders just as the sound of Brooklyn Nine-Nine fills the room. "Let me take care of you."
The night is unseasonably cold with tree branches whipping violently through the air. Bellamy paces back and forth between his kitchen and living room, wearing a trail into the rug. It's 11:37 p.m. on a Wednesday night, and Clarke's not home yet. The last train of the night rolls into the station closest to the condo every evening at 11:55 p.m. sharp. It's a ten-minute ride from Mount Weather Memorial to his house, which means Clarke has exactly eight fucking minutes to make it to the platform. He stares down at the old conversation stretched across his luminous cell phone screen.
4:01 p.m. Bellamy Blake: Planning on eating dinner home? Going to the grocery store after class. Can make something you like.
Like the pathetic fool he is, he checked his phone no less than four times waiting for her reply.
4:33 p.m. Clarke Griffin: No, thanks. I'm working the night shift. Don't get off til 11:30.
It took severe self-control, but Bellamy managed to make it through his World War II seminar, stop in Earth Fare, prepare a lasagna, put it in the oven to bake and actually get a few chapters of reading done before he allowed himself to reply.
8:14 p.m. Bellamy Blake: Are you taking the train back?
The longer his phone refused to vibrate, the worse his meal tasted until it was like chalk in his mouth. The growing desire to find her and take her home began pulsing deep in his veins, even though he tried to suppress it. She didn't know the hidden dangers lurking in the underbelly of Arkadia, the bands of scavengers who camped under bridges and in the woods surrounding the city and preyed on distracted people. All it took was one poorly lit sidewalk and a fast hand reaching out for her from the edge of a dark alley. Bellamy clutched his fork so hard it created an indent in his palm.
8:45 p.m. Clarke Griffin: Is that a serious question? I'm working.
He swears under his breath, trying to ignore the building desire to hold her down and fuck that attitude right out of her. Bellamy shakes his head roughly, disgusted with himself. He hasn't even kissed her. Correction--he won't ever kiss her unless by some cataclysmic act of fate she decides she actually likes him back. Which isn't fucking likely. He's a brute to her, and he knows it. Clarke might find him passably attractive from time to time. There are small jolts of her arousal he can smell on her when he's nearby occasionally, but that's about it. Mostly, he senses amusement, trepidation or confusion when he tries to get a read on her.
Fuck it. Sometimes he's got to play the Alpha card.
8:46 p.m. Bellamy Blake: Yes. Answer me.
8:48 p.m. Clarke Griffin: I always take the train.
8:49 p.m. Bellamy Blake: Last one leaves at 11:45.
8:50 p.m. Clarke Griffin: I am aware of the schedule.
He does the dishes. Then he does fifty pushups right there on the tile floor. He finishes his reading, takes a shower but pulls on fresh clothes instead of his sweatpants. He falls into the couch with enough force to make the springs groan and glances at the clock on the wall. 9:41 p.m. Reaching for the remote, he scans through the channels and settles on a town hall with liberal political candidates whose names he won't remember in the morning.
10:45 p.m. Bellamy Blake: Are you wrapping things up?
11:08 p.m. Clarke Griffin: Sure. If you call stemming the flow of blood from the guts of a car crash victim wrapping things up.
11:08 p.m. Bellamy Blake: Jesus. I thought you helped sick kids.
11:11 p.m. Clarke Griffin: I have multiple talents. And we're understaffed tonight.
11:12 p.m. Bellamy Blake: But you're definitely gonna make the train?
11:15 p.m. Clarke Griffin: Don't see why not atm. I'll be fine. Stop overreacting.
He growls, wishing she wasn't so damn carefree about her personal safety. The conversation on TV about gun control is going around in circles, and he can't concentrate anymore. He knows he won't be able to until she's home.
11:31 p.m. Bellamy Blake: Headed to the train?
11:34 p.m. Bellamy Blake: Clarke?
His heartbeat drumming sharply in his neck is a feeling he could do without.
11:35 p.m. Bellamy Blake: Where the hell are you?
Any attempts at patience fly away when a guy he didn't even know was running for president starts talking about a young woman he knew personally gunned down at a concert a few years back. In his mind's eye, he sees Clarke with her jacket wrapped tight around her slim torso on the drafty platform while a lumbering man in a dirty beanie approaches her from behind.
11:37 p.m. Bellamy Blake: Please answer me.
Still nothing. He knows he's not her favorite person, but he also realizes she has the decency to let him know she's safe. With a grunt of disgust and a sharp stab of concern piercing somewhere between his upper left ribs, he shoves the phone into his back pocket and strides to the closet in search of his jacket and boots.
It's a short drive to the hospital. Bellamy pulls into the first available spot he sees at the edge of the lot nearest the front doors. He jumps down from his truck to the pavement below, immediately bowing against the wind chill. He called Clarke twice from the road, and both times he got her voicemail.
He doesn't recognize the pretty woman with long, flowing dark hair sitting behind the desk absorbed in something on her computer screen. Quite frankly, he doesn't give a damn who she is except that she might be able to give him some answers.
"Clarke Griffin," he grits out fiercely, one fist coming down against the top of the desk with a thump.
"Clarke Griffin. She's one of your nurses working tonight. Has she left?"
He knows instinctively this white coated doctor is an Alpha too from the way she narrows her eyes and quickly rises to her feet, her heels clicking sharply on the floor.
"I don't see how that's any of your business, Mr. ..."
"Blake. Bellamy Blake. Listen, I'm worried something happened to her," he says sharply, leaning over the desk to stare down into her eyes. He's not backing off on this one, and if she thinks so, she's got another thing coming. "She's not answering her phone, and there are a lot of psychos roaming the streets at night in this city if you didn't know--"
The woman makes an abrupt hissing sound. When she speaks again, her annoyance is palpable.
"Who are you to her exactly?" She takes in his hunched over stance and deep frown.
"I'm her roommate," he huffs.
Her mouth purses but then her expression lightens momentarily.
"You're Octavia's brother, aren't you?"
This catches him off guard.
"Yeah. I am."
She sighs in something akin to understanding.
"Uh-huh. Ok then. Listen to me, Mr. Blake, and listen well. Because I'm not repeating myself. We take the safety of all of our staff here very seriously. But we do not keep tabs on the comings and goings of everyone. Ms. Griffin and all our nurses for that matter are well aware that our security team is available to escort them to their cars or the train station if needed when they're done with their shifts. If Ms. Griffin is working this evening, I'm sure she got caught up in the ER. We had multiple car crash victims tonight."
She blinks at him slowly, arching an eyebrow as if daring him to deny anything she's just said.
Bellamy forces himself to take a deep breath and rolls his neck until it cracks.
"Clarke doesn't drive to work," he settles on. "And I don't think she made it to the train in time."
The doctor smirks at him. "Ever heard of Lyft, Mr. Blake? Or perhaps Uber?"
Bellamy growls outright, a slow and steady rage churning in his stomach knowing he's wasting time while Clarke could be at risk. Meanwhile, this woman is getting off fucking with his head.
He grips the side of the counter and pulls himself as close to her as he can get despite the barrier.
"I don't think you understand," he spits. "I'm concerned something happened to my roommate. Her shift ended almost an hour ago. So if you don't try to contact her immediately--"
His whole body physically relaxes at the sound of her voice. Tension flows out of his muscles in a quick-moving stream. Clarke hurries to the desk with a gray peacoat pulled on over her scrubs. Her hair tumbles freely over her shoulders, and she's carrying a bag that's too big for her frame.
"What are you doing here?"
"What did I tell you?" the doctor's smirk widens. "She got caught up with the trauma patients, didn't you, Griffin?"
"Yes, Dr. Tsing," Clarke nods politely at her superior. "I wanted to make sure all their records were properly updated before I left."
"Excellent," Dr. Tsings says crisply. "You're, ahem, roommate was concerned about you getting home safely. I imagine he'll take care of that now though, won't you, Mr. Blake?"
Bellamy desperately wants to tell her to fuck off as her eyes flicker between them. But then he notices Clarke is morphing into a tomato and nods instead.
"Thank you for your help," he says curtly before reaching for the heavy bag Clarke carries. "Let's go," he tells her, letting his voice drop significantly. "My truck's in the front lot."
"Good night, Dr. Tsing," Clarke calls over her shoulder kindly, giving the woman a smile and a wave.
But the nice facade crumples the moment they turn the corner into the lot.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Bellamy!" she snarls, dropping her hands to her hips as he hoists her bag into the backseat. It's chilly enough for her breath to come out in white puffs. There's absolutely no reason that should arouse him. Maybe it's just that it makes him focus on her cupid's bow of a mouth.
Bellamy ignores her, opening the passenger side door instead and watching her expectantly. She smells mildly of antiseptic but also like crushed lavender.
"Get inside," he grits.
"I'm not getting in your goddamn truck, Bellamy!"
"Yes, you are." He did not drive down here in the middle of the night worried about her whereabouts for her to pull this shit now. The very last thing he needs is to have Dr. Tsing stroll into the parking lot and see them fighting.
"I'm not." He half expects her to stamp her foot. She wears her defiance like a thick cloak.
"You are because I've spent the last hour thinking you were dead in a ditch somewhere--"
"You're so fucking dramatic--
"Don't interrupt me," he snarls, taking a step closer to her. She backs up right into the closed back door of his red Chevy, catching the wild look in his eyes as he comes closer.
"Arkadia isn't the safest city at night, Princess, which you'd know if you kept up with the news."
"I watch the news!" Clarke hisses indignantly. "I can take care of myself. I don't need some guy acting like a nut job because I got busy at work and couldn't answer his texts!"
It's as though hot oil spills through Bellamy's veins. One moment he's a few feet from her hellion form. The next, he's pinning her wrists to her sides while his chests holds hers in place. For a few moments, she doesn't breathe. Her smooth skin is chilled under his touch. Angry interest sputters off her in jagged waves. He holds eye contact with her for many long seconds before leaning down to press his lips to her ear, tightening his grasp on her as he does it. "We both know I'm not some guy, Omega."
As insanity clouds his brain, he reaches under her jacket and grips her firmly around the side of her waist. The tips of his fingers skim the skin of her side where her top shifts. He squeezes tightly and she gasps, pupils dilating fully. "Now Get. Into. The Truck."
It takes a moment, but Clarke does break from his grip and shove him backward. He chuckles, half amused and half pissed. But then she climbs into the passenger's seat, and he closes the door, moving around the vehicle to climb into the driver's side.
"Oh look," he says sardonically, glancing at her as he pulls back onto the main road. "You actually can obey me. Good to know."
"Bellamy," her warning coats the one word unmistakably. "Stop it."
"Shhhh," he instantly shushes her, one of his large hands falling to her mid-thigh and blanketing it. "I don't take my orders from you. Actually ... " he begins speeding up to merge onto the highway. "Last time I checked, you take your orders from me."
Clarke's whole body turns rapidly in her seat to face him. The fear is evident in her bright blue eyes.
"You said you weren't that kind of Alpha," she accuses coldy.
"And I'm not. I won't be." He means it, he does. "As long as you don't scare the shit out of me on a regular basis. Because when you do that ... I can't control myself."
"I was working," Clarke insists again, but a little more gently.
"I know, I know," Bellamy soothes, rubbing tiny circles up and down her inner thigh. He tries not to be too smug about the way she's opened her legs an inch to his touch. "You're forgiven."
When a dry cough wakes him up at 3 a.m., Bellamy pads down the hallway to the kitchen in search of a glass of water. He doesn't expect to find the door to Clarke's bedroom cracked open or to hear the gentle moan coming from within. He pauses outside her room, afraid to scare her. But he can't help it. Closing his eyes, he tilts his head back and breathes deeply. Her arousal is tangy with a hint of citrus, even from here. With an abundance of care, he presses the door open a little farther, just enough to see her sprawled out flat on her back on her bed. She's wearing a thin white sleep shirt. Her nipples are poking through the fabric, and she's fondling one of the large mounds in her hand. The other is locked inside her panties. He can only imagine she's toying with her clit and slipping two fingers inside herself by the way her hips undulate. Her blonde hair glints in the light of her lamp as she moves, careful but with a touch of desperation.
It can only mean one thing: Her heat isn't far away.
The organs behind Clarke's rib cage tremble the next morning when she enters the kitchen early and finds Bellamy sipping a glass of water and reading a very thick book. He's wearing a rumpled olive green shirt that reminds her of the military. He's so thoroughly absorbed in the words on the page, he doesn't notice her enter. Instead, he mindlessly raises his shirt to scratch his side. She tries not to look at the flash of darkened skin the motion reveals. It's past the time he normally heads to Arkadia University. She certainly didn't expect him to still be home. Clarke winces when her toes land on the creaky part of the floor.
Bellamy's eyes find hers swiftly, and a slow smile stretches across his face. "Good morning," he raises his glass in salute. "Off today?"
"Yes, for the next few days for Memorial Day weekend."
"Me too. One more week and I'm off for the summer."
A zing of excitement soon chased by dread pulses through her body. It's hard to describe what his presence does to her. She feels the pull toward his broad form lounging casually, remembers what his hands felt like massaging her shoulders and radiating heat through her back. The image of Dr. Tsing raising her eyebrows between the two of them last night is still burned on the back of her retinas, however. It had absolutely mortified her to have him waiting there, acting the role of a domineering Alpha protecting his ... territory. As if she was some schoolgirl who couldn't find her way home but would get lost in the woods traipsing after butterflies.
"I like the--" Bellamy's rumble breaks into her thoughts, his free hand wiggling in the air above his head, "messy bun thing you've got there."
Clarke ducks her head and smiles involuntarily, biting her lip to quell it and feeling the anger toward herself build. She starts digging in the pantry for cereal in an attempt to gather herself. When she speaks, it's as snappish as she can manage. "Don't tease me. It's too early for that."
"But it's not too early to be rude to an Alpha when he compliments you." Bellamy leans back on the legs of his chair, smirking wide now. "And it's never too late to yell at him when he tries to make sure you get home safe. Isn't that right?"
Clarke emerges with Cheerios and busies herself rummaging for fresh berries and her almond milk in the refrigerator. She makes a low vibrating noise that could be affirmation or denial. Bellamy tastes her embarrassment on the tip of his tongue regardless.
"Can I make you something to eat?" she asks. "I can scramble eggs, or I saw you have a waffle maker. Or maybe cereal?" She shakes the box to hear the little Os rattle, knowing without looking at him this isn't working. Amusement manifests like lemon yellow and hot pink sparks pulsing around him. She can almost see them dance through the air.
"I'm going for a run in a few minutes. I'll eat after that, but thanks."
"Oh. Ok," Clarke nods. She sets down her cereal on the table and begins pulling out produce from the refrigerator drawers. He can only assume she means to juice them.
He reads quietly as she works, the machine crushing up the fibers of celery and stalks of kale. Bellamy grins - though she doesn't see it - when she sneaks a piece of pineapple into her mouth.
She's just settled the green-tinged drink in front of the seat farthest away from Bellamy when he speaks again.
"Come here please."
Clarke's eyes dart to his face.
"Omega," his eyebrows raise expectantly.
Clarke shuffles to him in her slippers, dragging them across the floor. "Yeah?" Her gaze finds his nose then the jut of his collarbone.
"You have something you want to say to me?"
Bellamy catches the wrist swaying at her side and raises it up, taking in the dark markings of her tattoo there. The swirling cursive forms one word: Infinity. He brings it up to his mouth and drops a kiss over the ink. Clarke whimpers in a way she's never heard from herself. The hairs on the back of her neck rise up.
"I shouldn't have grabbed you like I did last night. That was wrong. I'm sorry," Bellamy says, earnest eyes on hers.
Clarke swallows hard and moves her chin up and down jerkily.
"I forgive you."
One side of Bellamy's mouth quirks up. "Thanks, Princess."
He squeezes her hand lightly before letting it go, and it's the gesture that pushes her over the edge.
"I'm sorry, too," she murmurs. "I might've overreacted a little."
He tilts his head to the side, considering her.
"I just wanted you to be safe."
"Yeah, you said." She swats the blonde wisps of hair out of her eyes.
"Do you feel safe in this house with me?"
She doesn't know what to say. When she arrived last week? Probably not. The way he was last night? Only partly. But the way he's watching her now like he really cares about what she's going to answer? How she saw him behave with Madi and Octavia? The meal he made for her and his insistent desire to keep her off the streets late at night? Her trust is - well, growing. Maybe.
"Mostly." That's as close to the truth as it gets.
Something dangerous glints in the rich earthy brown of his eyes, and his knee brushes up against hers as he moves it.
"Comfortable enough to touch yourself with the door open this close to your heat."
It's a statement, not a question. Clarke hears herself gasp right out loud. No mirror is necessary to know how her face burns.
"You ... you watched me?" she sputters indignantly.
Bellamy's pupils expand despite the sunlight streaming in through the window. His fingers press carefully into the back of her thigh, an inch or so from where the swell of her ass begins. "I couldn't help it. You smelled too good to resist." He seems so nonchalant about it, as if this happens every day.
You cannot scream at your Alpha again. Do NOT yell, Clarke. Keep your cool.
"Were you thinking about me when you did it, Princess?" His fingers trail up along her bare arm as he speaks, raising goosebumps in their wake.
She shifts uncomfortably. Yes. Yes. She wants to shout it out into the quiet kitchen and hates herself for it. Despite all her better instincts, despite her normally highly rational brain, she'd replayed the moment when he'd pinned her against his truck over and over while she touched herself. She'd imagined what his mouth would feel like nipping at the scent glands on the back of her neck, the hard planes of his chest pressed against hers and what his fingers would feel like skimming over her stomach, dipping lower into the slickness between her thighs.
Clarke opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. Her silence seems to speak volumes for him.
"No reason to be ashamed," Bellamy whispers, low. The tougher skin of his palm captures her jaw bone briefly. "It's only natural."
Clarke is spared the need to respond when Bellamy's phone suddenly goes off, ringing loudly next to his water glass. A bright picture of a smiling Octavia with her arm around her brother fills the screen.
"Gotta take this."
She scampers away, picking up her cereal bowl and juice and beelining for her room where she intends to lock herself away for as long as possible. Bellamy finds her there, several hours later, covered in a white apron flecked with a rainbow's worth of paint splatters. She's set up a small easel and canvas in the corner and is painting what looks to be a sun setting over emerald hills. He clears his throat loudly enough to get her attention.
"What do you want?"
"I thought princesses had better manners," comes his retort, but his smile is full of a warmth she's not sure she's earned or deserved.
Shut up, hormones.
"That was Octavia before, on the phone."
"Lincoln sold out everything for his first art show. We're going to Sanctum tonight to celebrate. She wants you to come."
There's something in his face that's akin to a challenge.
"Unless," his eyes move warmly down her body, "You'd prefer to find other ways to spend your time--"
"Shut up," Clarke grits, snapping her teeth together. "I'll come."
Sanctum is - in a word - psychedelic. The large, purple rounded entryway reminds Clarke of something that's a cross between Frodo Baggins' front door and the swirling inside of a seashell. The curtains separating one space from the next are shiny black-and-gold and floor length. Beams of plum and aqua light cast otherworldly shadows on the faces of partygoers whose bodies rock into each other on the dance floor.
Bellamy must catch the mystified expression on her face before she's able to school it. He throws her a sidelong glance.
"Kind of like a fairytale, right, Princess?"
Barely turning her head in his direction, she offers a half-smirk. "It just doesn't seem like your scene."
He shrugs his broad shoulders. "Accurate. But it does scream Octavia."
"True," Clarke concedes. She hasn't known the other Blake sibling long, but she's already well aware Octavia delights in all things glittery and bright.
Bellamy suddenly lifts his chin in the direction of someone at the sleek-looking bar wrapped closely along the back wall. "Lincoln's over there," is all he says before he's engulfing her hand with his own and guiding her along the edge of the dance floor in the direction of the pretty glass bottles lined up in a row.
Country rock blasts over the speakers, but only one thought recirculates in Clarke's shocked mind.
Your Alpha is touching you. Your Alpha is touching you.
First she feels the urge to pull away and forge her own path ahead. But then Bellamy squeezes her hand and tugs a little, catching her around the waist and looping her seamlessly past a very drunk-faced group of rowdy frat boys, one of whom just let a glass bottle slip between his fingertips and smash across the floor. So she nestles herself into his side without complaint and holds her breath momentarily to reduce the effect of the delicious smoke-and-sea salt scent resting on his shirt.
The moment they reach Lincoln - tattoos crawling up the man's muscular arms but with a smile as genuine as the sunrise - Clarke moves to disentangle herself. She feels the slow slide of Bellamy's fingers leaving her hip and just barely grazing the upper swell of her backside before falling away entirely.
"Hey! Thanks for coming, man!" Lincoln grins and claps Bellamy on the shoulder. "It's good to see you."
"Likewise, congrats on selling all your art. No small feat." He returns the smile warmly.
"Ahh! Clarrrkkee! You came!" Octavia bursts into view from between a few taller people jockeying for a place at the bar. She's wearing a blue bandage wrap dress lightly flecked with something like fairy dust. "I'm soo happy!" She pauses only a moment to put down the two drinks she carries at the corner booth Lincoln's standing beside before launching her arms around Clarke's neck.
"Someone start the party early?" Bellamy rumbles loudly enough to Lincoln, who only chuckles in response.
"Fuck off, big brother," Octavia says in one breath before taking Clarke by the arm and bringing her in front of her boyfriend. "Lincoln, this is Clarke, my friend from work and Bellamy's--"
It hits with the intensity of an ice pick stabbing her in the temple. The wash of possessiveness coming from Bellamy makes her gasp and stand up straighter, almost convinced she imagined it. But his dark eyes are boring into hers, and she can hear the words like he said them aloud.
"Roommate," Octavia finishes primly, winking at Clarke as Lincoln extends his hand to shake hers.
"Pleasure to finally meet you," he says kindly.
"Octavia's beside herself that anybody can put Bellamy in his place."
Clarke laughs weakly, returning his smile before running her hand through the side of her hair, so some of the blonde locks cover her face.
"He's, umm. Well ... I never met anyone like him," she chooses her words carefully. At least it's true without being rude. It's also vague as hell, and she can feel the frenetic nature of Bellamy's energy rising at her back.
"What did I tell you?" Octavia loops her arm through Clarke's, a little shaky on her spiked heels, and ushers her toward the bar. "Harmless. A nerd and a clean freak." She lowers her voice to whisper conspiratorially, "He's also a huge mother hen, always taking care of our drunk friends and--"
"Octavia," Bellamy says warningly, but she just brushes him off with her hand before asking Clarke what she wants to drink and nudging her in the direction of the bartender.
It's cognitive dissonance in her brain if she even has the right definition of cognitive dissonance. Clarke's nodding along, eyes growing wider, as Octavia recounts how Bellamy was the only reason she even passed the higher-level math classes to get into nursing school. Then her gaze lands on a drink on the cocktail menu called "Flaming Lava," and she's off explaining an entire game he created entailing jumping on various pieces of furniture - apparently the ground was hot lava? - when they were kids to distract her when she got upset that their mom had to work late. Bellamy's mouth is pursed in a line twitching only a tad. But the frown lifts completely when Octavia reaches out and ruffles his hair between her slim fingers. Is he even the same person she's been getting to know?
The booth that was big for four becomes tight for six. Lincoln's friend Roan shows up a half hour after they arrived. He either owns a shooting range or a leather store; Clarke's had a shot of tequila and two (was it three?) vodka crans, and it's hard to keep track of the conversation over the noise of the place. But he does have pretty blue eyes, and she finds they have a shared hatred for the same Game of Thrones characters, so that starts them off on the right foot. When the Amazonian beauty arrives, things get a little dicey. Anya has brown ombre hair and both legs and cheekbones that go on for miles. Octavia insists on sitting next to her to chat about her fascinating D.C. career in international relations, pushing her brother out of the booth to give her a spot.
Clarke's heart speeds up as she realizes the only spot left is the one beside her at the edge of the curved seating arrangement. But just as Bellamy is about to claim it, Roan cheers in delight in a way that snaps her eardrums back to attention. "Old Town Road just came on," he leans in to inform her confused face. "It's my favorite. Want to dance?"
"Oh," Clarke grins a little, loosening up with the alcohol. She's flattered. He's attractive and nice and odds are some kind of entrepreneur. In her peripheral vision, she sees Bellamy clutch the edge of the table. Her cunt clenches against her will. These suppressants might as well be M&Ms, she thinks helplessly.
But she's her own person with a free will. Plus, Roan's watching her with a hopeful expression, so there's really nothing else for it. She slides as gracefully as she can from the booth, working hard to make sure the backs of her exposed thighs don't stick to the material.
"Excuse me," she says pointedly to Bellamy, keeping her gaze on the patch of freckles under his left eye.
He grunts but moves out of the way, and the moment Roan's at his feet beside her, he takes her hand and leads her into the throng of dancers. His hand is nice - smooth where their palms meet with long, tapered fingers and a certain easy comfort about the way it cups her own. But the guilt is already starting to bubble up into her throat, choking her. She offers one tiny glance back over her shoulder at Bellamy as she tugs down her black dress with her free hand. His thick eyebrows are furrowed, and his jaw is clenched. It's hard to focus on much except the present moment, but even so, she feels his disapproval as she expands the distance between them.
I'm gonna take my horse to the old town road
I'm gonna ride til I can't no more.
It's a fun, twangy song with a slow beat that turns out to be perfect for one thing. When Roan reaches the center of the dance floor, he brings his hands politely to her waist, and she settles hers on his shoulders. There are enough people around them that they have to stay pretty close together. It's warm with all the body heat, but Clarke feels lighter than she has since she moved to Arkadia. She starts swaying to the music in a way she hopes looks seductive and not moronic. It's always a fine line. After a few moments, Roan's hands tighten infinitesimally over her hips, and his mouth comes to find her ear. She knows he's a Beta without having to ask - he's that perfect in-between of assertive but not too much. He doesn't take what someone isn't willing to give. "Did anybody tell you that dress looks amazing on you?"
She leans back smiling, letting her hair fall away over her shoulders. "You're the first one. Thanks."
"Khalessi's got nothing on you," he jokes, and she presses a swift kiss to his cheek, laughing when she moves away.
"You're not that bad yourself."
Clarke looks away, cheeks pinking at her admission, and allows herself to straddle his thigh, which quite frankly, is just below her waiting to be used. Roan's eyes go black when she grinds down on him. She turns the side of his face into his chest. As people undulate to the rhythm, she catches glimpses of their table. Octavia sitting in Lincoln's lap and nodding eagerly at whatever Anya is saying. Bellamy--
Standing uncomfortably close to an athletic brunette with a small braid running the length of her glossy locks, defined biceps, and a grey skirt that molds to her ass tightly enough to make her cheeks look like cinnamon buns. She's just thrown her head back in laughter, pushing Bellamy's shoulder as though whatever he said was the greatest thing ever. He grins and Clarke sees him tap a swift beat to her jaw before pulling back. Suddenly it's not enough alcohol in her system at all. Her nose twitches a few times, and she finds herself baring her teeth.
Cheated on my baby
You can go and ask her.
Something snaps into place in her hormone-soaked head.
"Sorry, sorry, I need... uh. Water."
Clarke backs away from Roan, trying to look apologetic.
"Huh? Is something wrong? Did I do something?" Roan's arm lifts hesitantly for her. She hates the guilt that she put on his face.
"No, no. It's just so hot in here!" she half-yells over the music, fanning herself with her hand.
She doesn't think much about it. She has tunnel vision and uses it to make a beeline for Bellamy.
As if he senses her coming, she notices his body slowly pivoting in her direction. His eyebrows rise.
"Decided you can't ride no more?"
And there it is.
Why did you leave a perfectly good guy to come over here and subject yourself to this asshole?
Clarke narrows her piercing blue eyes into dangerous slits.
"I came over here to say I have a headache, and I'm going home. But I see now you didn't deserve the courtesy of being told."
She's pushing past a sashaying bachelorette party and almost to the door when Bellamy's fingers slide around her elbow, pulling her back into his chest. It's solid. When she spins around, they're almost nose-to-nose. He smells like the cigarettes she knows he was smoking out back with Lincoln.
"What?" she spits.
"You know how I feel about you taking the train late at night." He sounds like he's trying to keep his cool.
"I'm going to get an Uber."
It's even warmer now with his body heat right up against her. The edges of his hair are particularly curly tonight.
"Then I'm going to take it with you," his voice is softer now and husky. He's playing with the bare patch of skin at the small of her back which the cutout of her dress exposes. It makes her shiver.
"That's unnecessary. Go back and have fun with whatever her name is."
Bellamy's smirk is ferocious.
She hisses like a jungle cat.
"You wish. I didn't pick my rank, Bellamy! And I don't appreciate you holding it over my head. But I can damn sure pick who I dance with and who takes me home."
And with that, she bangs through the club door and into the chilly night.
It takes Bellamy every bit of ten seconds to process what just happened. But then he's following her out the door, adrenaline coursing through his system. His heated skin gets a moment of reprieve as the outdoor air hits it. The noise of the club still buzzes in his ears. He scans up and down the block for the tousled blonde waves and tight black dress hugging the curves of his ...
Of Clarke. Shaking his head to clear it, he makes sure he still has his wallet in his back pocket before setting off in the direction of a flash of yellow he sees at the end of the street. He hurries to keep up, calling her name though she pointedly ignores him. He curses under his breath. There's the bright light of her phone's screen. Bellamy knows she's probably feeling the alcohol by now - the drinks are always stronger at Sanctum because the bartender Atom has a hopeless crush on Octavia.
Letting out a huge sigh, he breaks out into a jog.
"What?" She tries to swing around too fast, and she almost falls off the sharp edge of the cement.
His reflexes seem faster than usual where she's concerned and he steadies her by grasping for her wrist and waiting until she's got her footing before dropping it. Outside without all the competing scents of the club, he can smell the earthy soil saturated by rainwater again. He breathes deeply on instinct. He wants to drink her in, press his face into her neck and bite at her pulse point. His fingers twitch at his sides.
"You're drunk, Clarke. That's what," he says firmly. "I'm gonna take you home."
Her mouth scrunches up like a crinkled rose at the same time her eyebrows become sewn together. She resembles a kitten remarkably well.
"I'm not going with you. You're always trying to tell me what to do!"
This is not an argument he wants to have on a dirty city street at 1 a.m. Bellamy runs a tired hand over his face before lodging it into his tousled curls. He can feel her confusion, her reluctance but at the same time for once, her--he doesn't have a good word for it. It's something like acquiescence. It reminds him of when he tells the students he TAs for that they absolutely need to study for the final or they'll have to retake the course. They know it's what's best for them, but they'll be damned if they do it without kicking and screaming the whole way.
"I'm trying to keep you safe and in one piece, all right?" Reason seems like it might work. She's a nurse, for God's sake. Doesn't her mind thrive on science? "I'm going to get the Uber, and you're going to stay here with me. Got it?"
She pushes hard against his stomach, frowning. "I hate you."
"Yeah, yeah. I know."
He tells himself to blame it on the high emotions of the night, the alcohol and lateness of the hour. But when Clarke's mesmerizing blue eyes close in the backseat of the car a few minutes later and her heavy head lolls onto his shoulder, he has to start naming every Roman god and goddess he can think of to stop the tightening sensation in his boxers. Her heat's coming. It's obvious to him by the heavy tinge of tangy arousal he picks up on her. If he were to slide his hand up her thigh right now, he'd find her wet and slick. It's starting, and it's going to be a damn problem.
Of all the damn people Octavia could have met--
Bellamy carefully frees his left arm she leans against and wraps it around her shoulder. The corner of his lip stretches up when she snuggles into his side in her sleep. She'd deny it tomorrow, probably hate herself for it. That thought alone makes his stomach clench up. But she just fits beside him. He knows it down to his bone marrow. She's his. Closing his own eyes and resting his head back against the cushions, he slowly counts backward from one hundred.
I am so fucked.
At the very least, with her living in his condo, he's got nothing but opportunities to show her he's not the beast she thinks he is. There's plenty of time to win her over.
"Clarke? Clarke? We're home."
Someone is jostling her shoulder. Clarke tries to swat them away, but the disturbance persists. When her eyes open reluctantly, they settle on the dimple in a chin she's becoming very familiar with.
"Leave me alone," she grumbles and tries to snuggle better against something cool and smooth.
"Sorry about this. Just give me a second," she hears him saying but she doesn't know who he's talking to.
"Don't worry. Happens all the time. She's lucky to have you," a deep and melodic voice replies.
“She doesn’t seem to think so.”
The next thing she knows, he is hoisting her up into his arms, one tucked under her knees and the other wrapped around her back. There's the slam of a door that wakes her up more. What did he do, kick it closed? Finally opening her eyes fully, she sees an abundance of stars and some cotton filament clouds overhead. The moon is a glowing golden crescent high over Polaris. So few windows of the high-rise are still lit she can count them.
"Why are you carrying me?" she asks sternly as they enter the glass-and-silver lobby.
"Because you wouldn't walk," he grunts back, managing to stab the elevator button with his elbow.
"Well I can walk now."
"I've got you."
"Put me down!" Clarke starts to struggle. It makes his grip on her tighten - he's nothing but solid muscle surrounding her from all sides.
"Can't you do what I ask just once?" he sounds tired. "Please. You know I'm trying to help."
Something in the timber of his voice makes her muscles go lax, and she stops the fight.
"Good Omega," Bellamy soothes as the elevator doors ding open.
Bellamy deposits Clarke gently on her bed, reaching around behind her to swiftly unzip most of the zipper pattern down her back before she can realize he did it. He's burning to touch her. He wants to map out every bump and curve of her vertebrae with his tongue. But that's sure as hell not the responsible thing to do.
She's already burrowing into her pillows, dress falling off her creamy shoulder to show him a lace black bra he did not need to see. It's doing nothing for his throbbing cock.
"You've got to change, Clarke."
Damn, she's really out of it.
He swings into his room and finds a long, loose T-shirt of his in the upper drawer of his dresser. He grabs a glass of water from the kitchen and a bottle of Advil he keeps in a the bathroom cabinet before returning to her moonlit bedroom. A beam of silver crosses her tranquil face, highlighting the mole above her lip.
He puts everything down on the nightstand and lightly squeezes her upper arm.
"Come on, Clarke. This dress is too tight to sleep in."
Is that the understatement of the century.
She moans, biting her lower lip and trying to swat at him without opening her eyes.
"Then take it off for me," she mumbles.
The blood is rushing lower, lower, lower in his body.
"You won't like that idea tomorrow," he manages a husky whisper, mouth dry. Her thigh is right there, ivory cream. His fingers twitch once more.
"Don't tell me tomorrow then. Just do it. I'm too tired."
Bellamy gulps, tries to breathe through his teeth. Jesus Christ.
With extreme effort, he helps her wiggle out of the dress and fumble into his shirt. He does not let his eyes linger on her bare stomach. Once it's secure over her body, he sits beside her, surprised when she immediately falls back into his chest.
"You're always nice and warm," she says, dreamy. He freezes completely when she tips her head up and to the side unexpectedly and presses a kiss to his neck.
Is this what she's always like before her heats? Is it just the vodka?
Trying not to think too much about it, he unhooks her bra through the cotton fabric and manages to slide the straps down her arms.
"Pull your bra off for me, Princess," he murmurs into her ear, trying to keep his growing erection from rubbing into her ass. "I unhooked it for you."
She complies and then actually crawls right up into the pillows of her bed, ass swaying from side to side in the process. He's going to fucking explode.
"Good night," he grits, moving for the door.
"'Night, Bell," she hums into the quiet.
There is a mild buzzing in Clarke's ears and a dry, chalky taste in her mouth when she wakes up the next morning. Her muscles feel a little stiff, and as she examines the tall glass of water and bottle of pills on her bedside table, a sinking sensation enters her stomach. It's only confirmed when she draws back her covers and finds herself in an extra large men's grey T-shirt with ARKADIA UNIVERSITY emblazoned across the chest in crimson block letters. It's overwhelming her with the woodsy scent of a very arrogant man and his goddamn freckles. She quickly rips it off her head and flings it across the room to lie crumpled in a corner, leaving herself in her barely there underwear.
She blinks at her knees wordlessly, holding up a hand against the slash of bright sunlight bulldozing its way into her room from where she forgot to fully shut the blinds before she went out last night.
Last night. It's coming back to her in drips and drabs. Sanctum. Lincoln's art show. Roan and something about Game of Thrones. That tall, predatory brunette invading the space of her--
Her body blazes with shame for what's probably too long considering that she's by herself. Then her pounding headache reorients her to the task at hand, which amounts to getting the hell out of here as quickly as possible. Clarke bustles around her room in overdrive trying to get ready. Her outfit is nothing fancy - just a pair of skinny jeans and a purple T-shirt with beige gladiator sandals that tie at the ankle. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she sighs and touches up the skin under her eyes with a brush of mineral foundation and tries to make her eyes brighter with a sparkling shadow. It's as good as it's going to get, she figures, running her fingers through her wavy locks still damp from the shower.
She creaks open her door and slips as silently as possible down the hall, but there's no sign of Bellamy anyway. No TV news playing in the background, no drone of NPR coming from the radio he insists on keeping in the kitchen because, "How would we know anything in case of an emergency, Princess?" She bites her lip as she catches the lingering scent of his aftershave when she steps past his room. It reminds her of ... his neck. She can't believe she kissed his neck last night. The ghost sensation of his stubble brushing against her lips lingers. And did she actually ask him to take off her dress? The sheer lunacy of it all is enough to make her stomach roll over. Grabbing a protein bar and pre-made celery juice from the fridge (yes, so what if she is completely the health nut Bellamy pegged her to be?), she takes off down the stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator.
What she needs is some time and space to herself to clear her head and figure out what the hell she's doing. Clarke takes deep breaths on the train winding its way underground a few stops to her favorite park. It's one Octavia took her to during their lunch break her first week on the job. It's warmer today, and she walks aimlessly around the main pond, spotting a mama duck escorting her babies safely across the mildly rippling water. But even watching a group of kids play frisbee and a few college kids who must be finished with exams buy ice cream from a street vendor can't keep the memories away. The cool blankness in Bellamy's eyes when she approached him last night after breaking away from Roan even though his fist was clenched at his side. The way he pulled her against his chest so she couldn't leave the club the moment she wanted to. Him actually carrying her out of the car and into their building gently like she was something precious to protect. He's so full of contradictions and complications, soft one moment and abrasive the next.
Still, she was more drunk than she should have let herself get last night. So it's a grudging seed of gratitude she feels for him in the pit of her chest. At least he didn't leave her there to let the night claim her for its own. She remembers his body was warm and sturdy despite her vodka haze, something she could maybe curl up against one day, under the right circumstances. The twitch of his smirk flashes unexpectedly behind her eyes, and she lets out a tiny gasp, bringing a hand up to her mouth to cover the noise. A short spasm of pleasure pulses between her thighs. But that can't be right. It's not how this works. She pauses beside a wide tree trunk, resting her palm against its scratchy bark to catch her breath and will her brain to think. She's a nurse, for God's sake. She knows all about heats. Whipping her phone out of her purse, she pulls up the app she uses to track her cycles. The small red dot over the date isn't lying to her.
Damn it. It's starting today. In earnest.
Clarke shakes her head back and forth and pinches the bridge of her nose. She's never heard of an Omega feeling sensations at the mere thought of someone.
You've also never known your Alpha before, an annoying voice chimes in.
Gritting her teeth, Clarke tucks her phone away again and walks in the direction of the nearest park exit which will lead her back toward downtown Arkadia.
It's because her parents raised her to be polite and respectful, she tells herself. It has nothing to do with being an Omega and feeling the desire to cater to an Alpha. It's what anybody would do, regardless of rank. She stops into the drug store a few blocks from Polaris and heads straight for the rack of gift cards, snagging one for a gas station. After reading through a few cards in the Gratitude section, she thumbs to the back of a row and grins when her eye catches a card featuring only a beautiful, lacy bra with the inscription, Thanks for your tremendous support. She pays for both and then snags one of the tables in the pharmacy that are supposed to be for measuring your blood pressure and pulling a pen out of her bag, scribbles:
Thanks for helping me get home last night.
She chews the end of the pen, twitching her nose, unsure. But then she remembers his dark form standing in the well-lit corridor of her hospital, glancing around for her while accosting Dr. Tsing, her boss, about her whereabouts. She snaps the pen back into its writing position with a sharp click.
But from now on, keep your hands to yourself.
She's just finished sealing the note closed and scrawling his name on the cover when a sharp throb emerges again between her legs. Clarke grips the edge of the table, killing the soft moan curling at the back of her throat and wincing when she feels a wave of slick wetness suddenly drenching her underwear. Her heart beats quicken, and her vision narrows on the door.
Home. She has to get home. Fast.
Nothing like this has ever happened to her before, she finds herself thinking as she rummages in the medicine cabinet of her bathroom a few minutes later. She's diligent about taking her suppressants daily. It's practically her religion. Letting out a sigh of relief, her pale fingers snatch up the purple container and peel back the delicate white paper to reveal the side effects panel just as another gush of slick threatens to leave her body. She clamps her inner thighs together tightly and starts digging around for a tampon instead. She'd thrown her ruined underwear and jeans into the laundry as soon as she'd gotten home. She settled on an old pair of black gym shorts from college instead. At least their darkness would help conceal her ... situation.
Clarke lets out a groan of frustration. She has no fucking idea where she's packed her tampons away. Her skin's starting to heat up slowly too, and her breasts feel heavier than they did just a few hours ago, tender and swollen. This is not supposed to happen. The suppressants block all of this. She would know - she's been on them for ten years. Clarke scans the label for the third time, but it says absolutely nothing about allowing symptoms of an Omega's heat to break through its powerful formula. Dr. Tsing was supposed to have thought of everything; her mother had reassured her repeatedly that she was the best. Unless, unless the old legends were true. Then there was only one way the suppressant was rendered practically useless. But no, that was child's play.
Her blood is thrumming in her throat when she senses the shimmering waves of excitement from down the hall. His heavy footfalls follow, and she manages to almost slam the door to the bathroom shut before he catches the handle from the other side.
"Clarke?" his voice is gruff but laced with a level of frenzy she's never heard in it before.
"Leave me alone, Bellamy!" she shouts, giving a valiant shove of the wood barrier between them, but he must be keeping it from closing with his shoulder.
"No," he says firmly. "You're not ok."
"How the fuck do you know how I am?" Even when she's livid, he manages to confuse the hell out of her.
Bellamy clears his throat. "I, uh. I can just tell, ok? Would you let me in please? Are you decent?"
She squints her blue eyes shut, sensing a little stream of clear fluid seeping past her curls and into the fabric of her fresh underwear, staining it anew. Is she decent? It's the height of irony.
"I want you to leave me alone," she snaps.
There's the sound of a grunt and then, "No."
"Why not?" Her voice could explode canyons.
Bellamy manages to slip the card she'd left for him in the living room into the open crack of the door. "Because I want to talk to you about you leaving me ridiculous sums of money. This is unacceptable, Clarke."
She nearly laughs she's so caught off guard. She's trapped in the bathroom losing her mind over his goddamn physical proximity, and he wants to talk about money?
"It's a thank you for last night. Didn't you read it?"
"I can't accept $150 from you. Are you insane?"
"It's summer," she shifts herself so her eyes can meet his through the small opening in the door. "You'll take a road trip or go to the beach or whatever. You'll use it then."
Bellamy's eyes narrow, but the corner of his lip twitches.
"So this is your high class way of getting rid of me, Princess?"
"Like that's even possible," Clarke mutters to herself.
"What'd you say?"
"Nothing. Just take the money and leave me alone, all right?"
"I don't need charity from you. I'll have a job in three months, a good one." She could be wrong, but she thinks she hears a hint of hurt in his voice.
She wants to calm down, truly she does. But the sound of his voice is doing nothing for the achingly hot throb of her clit which has decided to add to her torment. Trying to make her voice kinder, she offers, "I know, Bellamy. A gift doesn't take someone's job into consideration. Can't you just be grateful and say thank you?"
His laughter is dark and cutting. "Right, like you did?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You've got a threat wrapped up in your thank you."
"I do not!"
"You told me to keep my hands to myself."
"Well ..." she splutters, eyeing her pinked cheeks in the mirror. "You should!"
"Is that what you really want?" he lilts, pressing his hip unexpectedly into the door so it creaks open wide. Clarke stumbles back away from it.
"That's not what you told me last night," Bellamy continues, stepping onto the tile floor, eyes raking over her lightly trembling figure in a way that makes her feel like he's going to come to learn every part of her intimately. He must've just come from a run or something. His black curls are damp with sweat, and he's wearing athletic shorts and sneakers.
"Drunk people don't know what they're saying!" Clarke snaps.
But that doesn't deter him. Bellamy takes a slow step toward her, and her hand holding her pills starts to shake with her nerves. She drops it in her distress, his scent this close too much for her. Sharp spikes of desire tinge the anger and pride rolling up from his body and cling to the air. It's when she bends down to snatch up her pill bottle from where it rolled under the sink -effectively presenting her ass to him - that she hears his growl. The hard lines of his chest brush against her back when she stands, and she tries to shove an elbow into his stomach, but he captures the inner curve of her elbows firmly and binds her against him. His brown eyes meet her crystalline blue ones in the mirror, fully dilated. She whimpers at the feel of his erection building at the small of her back.
"You're in heat, and you're already dripping," he whispers over the top of her head. "I can smell it on you."
Clarke can't help her moan when one of his hands coasts between her thighs and presses past her underwear, gliding into her moisture to tap at her clit with the briefest of gestures. It seems to have swollen to three times its normal size. She's too stunned to move, but Bellamy's not. "Your Princess pills are no good with me, and you know it," he husks into her ear, gently removing the bottle from her clenched fist and unscrewing the lid.
He steps back for a moment, and she instantly misses his heat. Still, her anger flickers to life.
"What are you doing?" she snarls.
Bellamy simply holds up a large hand. "Stop fighting me, Omega." It's a strict command - there's really no other word for it.
With bulging eyes, she watches her white ovals sail straight into the toilet where Bellamy flushes them.
"You fucking asshole!" she jolts forward, pounding her fists into his shoulders, snapped back to reality with the gurgling water's noise. "I need those!"
"You don't," Bellamy counters, pushing her into the wall, one hand on her hip, and the other wrapping high around her rib cage. "You need to be bred."
"No!" Clarke shouts the moment his words compute in her mind.
Terror spikes fast and sharp through her bloodstream, even as her body traitorously hums to life with a fresh wave of slick spreading past the cotton guarding her sex. This is her true nature - she knows it down to the very core of her marrow now. There's heat creeping up her collarbone and a bit of sweat making her shirt stick to the small of her back.
"You've got a real mind of your own, don't you?" He laughs drily, one hand dipping lower along her back until his fingers graze the top of her ass cheek.
Her body struggles to break free of him. She didn't think he was holding her down that hard - it didn't feel like it - but it's a firm hand locking her into place right under her breast, which heaves with each movement, making it jiggle against him. Her nipples are hardening into sharp points.
He stares at her in momentary wonder. He's pressed close enough for his bare chest to almost touch her own. Maybe he can feel them. The smell of his sweat is completely intoxicating at this proximity. Her legs feel wobbly as her brain battles her baser urge to lick at the stubble under his jawline. How is it possible to be attracted and frightened all at once?
She doesn't like how black his eyes are, how predatory. But she can't help the small, almost satisfied pant that flees her mouth just before he covers it with the flat of his palm.
"I said be quiet, Omega," Bellamy breathes next to her ear.
Full-body goosebumps take over her form. Her heavy neck droops immediately, almost beyond her control. But he's so warm, so close. She can't help but dig her fingers into his side, slice her nails into the tan skin there. Bellamy maneuvers her chin up, so she's looking right into his shadowed face.
"Are you scared?" he murmurs.
She blinks back up at him, a few tears building behind her glassy blue eyes. As one slides down her cheek and into his hand, the energy pulsating around him softens, if only a little. She shakes her head.
Bellamy takes a long, slow breath in and out before stepping away from her just a fraction. Still, she can't trust her own legs right now.
"You're a bad liar, but you're brave, Princess," he offers. He nods in the direction of the door behind him. "You want to go, the door's right there."
Clarke scrunches her eyes shut. A fresh wave of cramping fire rolls through her stomach and lodges itself in her throat. Her fingers fly forward to grip at the edge of the sink.
"I can see you're moving fast," Bellamy taunts lightly, the corner of his mouth quirked upward in a smirk.
"Asshole," she manages with as much ferocity as she can muster. She stumbles to get some cold water into her hands to splash behind her neck where her hair hangs limply.
Her reflection is crazed when she gains the second to process it. She looks like she just ran a 5K, not casually walked home from the pharmacy.
"Why aren't they working?" she mumbles to herself, only half aware of Bellamy drawing close to her again. He drops a hand to the small of her back, rubbing an easy circle into the thin material of her T-shirt. She moans loudly at the simple touch, immediately mortified.
It takes a long time for her eyes to meet his in the mirror.
"You know why," is all he supplies.
He lifts his arm up at an angle, better revealing the side of his torso to her. Heart still hammering against her ribcage, Clarke scans the skin like it will unlock the mysteries of time and space to her. It's so tiny she almost misses it. It's a mottled brown color, almost as if it were another one of his freckles. But the smooth curve of the lines looping together is too perfect for that to be true. A sideways figure eight, graceful and sure. Infinity.
She turns in a daze, reaching out to touch it. Bellamy growls as soon as she makes contact, but she remains undeterred.
"It's always been there. Long as I can remember." His voice is so dark, so hoarse. "What about this?"
It takes her a second to realize he's holding up the inside of her wrist to inspect it, the pad of his calloused thumb rubbing a line over the word representing his symbol.
"Showed up when I turned thirteen," she whispers.
Her body is screaming, aching to be filled up. There's pulsing shimmers flaring deep in her cunt. She can't rub her thighs together, even if she longs to. Everything's getting blurry around the edges, and she blinks away the salted sweat as fast as it appears. It all only means one thing. There's no circumnavigating this one, no clever medical tricks she can think of.
"You know the pills never worked on me. Knew you were mine from the moment you walked in my door." Bellamy's coffee eyes are shot through with ink blackness as he pushes her gently into the counter. She raises a fist weakly - sweat starting again to shine her forehead - fully intent to knock it into his chest. But he catches it like it was an annoying moth in a field and lifts her onto the counter instead, stepping between her legs.
Clarke's breath catches as he leans in, one of his hands settled heavily on each of her upper thighs. He stops when his nose brushes against hers, and she bites back her moan.
"Who are you, baby?"
She pants hard a few times, fingers tight white on the edge of the counter. Bellamy's fingertips start coasting casually over her soft ivory skin, burning everywhere they move.
"I know, I know."
Maybe if she just agrees he's right, he'll let her wait this out in her room in a crumpled heap until it passes.
"No," he lilts insistently. "Tell me. Say the words."
She must be moving into some sort of haze because her fingertips develop their own agenda and start to trace over his abs, up and down, along the hollows and ridges.
"I'm your Omega," she whispers, eyes level on his navel. No sentence ever sounded so right, and it's a slap in the face.
"That's right," he soothes, his lips brushing over hers only barely at the tips, the very faintest hint of a kiss. "And what do you want?"
Clarke groans as a rolling storm of the most painful pleasure grips someplace buried between her hips. Again, her cunt flutters around absolutely nothing. Bellamy eyes the rocking jolt of her hips against the counter in search of friction with active interest.
"I want to get though this heat," she snarls.
He tisks his tongue, shaking his head.
"Try again, or you can pack up and go."
Clarke eyes him in outrage, but she's too weak to struggle this time. It's like walking through the desert for miles.
He pushes her to the edge of the counter so her legs dangle precariously over the side. One of his hot hands cups her cunt straight through the fabric of her shorts with the lightness of a breeze, the fastest landing and withdrawal that ignites the blaze to still higher heights.
"You can't do that."
"But I would."
"Why?" she chokes, actually desperate to understand.
Bellamy swallows hard, looks away for a minute. She'd almost think he was distressed if she didn't know better.
"Because it's killing me having you here and not being able to do anything about it! You're driving me insane!" he shouts it loudly enough to startle her. She stumbles backward against the glass, and he curses lowly, hastily trying to help her back into a sitting position.
Her body thrums in pleasure when he suddenly hooks one of her legs around his waist and presses against her, already thick and hard.
"Come on, Clarke. Stop fighting already. Just say it."
She bites her lip with a canine until it breaks the skin. His expression is nearly anguished. Without thinking, she reaches up to knot her fingers into the sides of his curls. Instantly, he leans into her palm. His other hand steadies itself at her waist, and she starts to shake at the sensation.
"Bellamy, I need you."
Bellamy can hear his own breathing, sharp and too heavy in the still air.
Clarke needs him.
Well of course she fucking does. She's his Omega. Her body is meant to slot perfectly beneath his. She was made to take his knot, scream his name, carry his children. She'd be a good mother too, he knows it. Better than his own. Clarke would teach her children everything they needed to know to survive in this world, equal parts nurturing and demanding.
He feels her thigh muscles starting to tremble beneath his hand. Clarke's light panting cuts right into his stomach. With effort, he drags his eyes away from her wide, desperate ones. Her top is stuck tight to her skin, and there's a glistening sheen just beneath her hairline. The very last thing he wants is for her to be in pain. This is nearly unbearable. His blood is molten lava churning within him. Every sense he has feels like it's been cranked up a hundred times. He can see a lone blonde hair resting on a hand towel hanging on the wall. Quick as anything, he leans in to kiss her forehead, dry lips on soft, warm ivory. Then squeezing his eyes shut, Bellamy steps back from her, gently untangling their bodies.
Clarke gasps immediately, a sweet little noise. His chest tightens when her fingers stretch out to him, hand opening and closing like a toddler demanding her snack.
"Bellamy!" she whines. "What are you doing?"
"Giving you the space you wanted."
His hand's already on the doorknob. He doesn't know a hell of a lot about Omega heats to be honest. Both his mother and sister are Betas and so was Gina, his high school sweetheart whom he kept dating deep into college. His last relationship (if you wanted to call it that) with Echo - another Alpha - was more or less a lot of angry sex while she was trying to "find herself." Whatever the hell that meant. He'd drawn the line when she'd suggested tying him down to his bed.
Bellamy didn't believe in tempting fate and chasing Omegas. Nobody's smell ever matched the perfect blend of... of what exactly? What was it he was looking for? For years, he'd had no idea. Nothing ever came remotely close to the phantom scent in his mind. Not until the feisty blonde in front of him stepped into his home and saturated it with the aroma of rainwater on soil and lavender sugar. Sure, sometimes Omegas threw themselves at him like Bree, a sophomore in the world history class he was TAing. But the pale, washed out stick figure bored him, twirling the end of her yellow hair around her finger and popping her gum during his lectures, eyeing him like he was a meal. Her short skirts had no impact on him, and he'd never been completely sure why (an Omega's an Omega at a certain point, right? Didn't nature demand he procreate?) until Clarke Griffin steamrolled into his life.
Confused, Clarke vaults down from the counter clumsily, yanking her shorts toward her knees and flapping the cloth of her top against her skin with two pinched fingers as she goes.
"I don't--" she sighs, looking away like it's costing her a great deal. "I don't need space. Please, Bellamy." Her ocean eyes plead with him, and his dick is getting inconveniently hard now. "It's you. I need you. Make it go away."
He won't take her like this when she doesn't really want it. He can't. He's not an animal. Bellamy's too busy scrubbing a hand over his face to see Clarke's knees wobble and her thin fingers clasp the side of the counter as what must be a fresh wave of arousal passes through her. He does, however, hear her breathy cry.
With great difficulty, he opens the door and backs out of the room. "I'm, uh. I'll let you take care of... uh. Yeah, just give you some space I guess."
Then he's taking off at top speed toward the safety of his own bathroom where he can lock himself in his shower for an hour if he has to and jerk off to the memory of her beautiful body pressed against his like the idiot he is. Can an Alpha survive an Omega's heat at this close proximity? He guesses he's about to find out as the cooling water begins beating down on his heated shoulders. His hand's braced on the navy tiles, not even reaching for his dick yet when Bellamy freezes at the sound of the door creaking open. He forgot to lock it. Of fucking course he did, eager as he was to come all over the glass wall.
"Clarke, leave," he grits out through clenched teeth.
"No." It's sure and unwavering, her answer.
"Get out, or I'm not going to be able to control myself," he growls.
He hates that this is what she brings out in him. Is she trying to fuck with him? Drive him insane? She's made it perfectly clear over and over that she doesn't like him, and now she what? Needs him to be a brute because her body's demanding an orgasm? No, he's not getting involved in her crazy bullshit, never mind how much he wants to pound her into his mattress, blend her green smoothies, laugh at the cheesy rom-coms that come up in her Netflix queue.
"So stop controlling yourself."
She says it like it's the most logical thing in the world, like she's telling a dehydrated man to just drink some water. And maybe she is. Maybe they're incapable of rational thought anymore. Maybe they're past the point of even knowing what a regret is, of worrying about what the other will think tomorrow morning. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.
His pulse slams in his ears when he hears the soft slide of her shorts hitting the floor. All he can make out through the frosted glass is the outline of her arms flying over her head when her shirt joins her shorts in a heap. She's so perfect, even like this. All soft curves and glowing hair and delicate movements.
Her hand is in mid-air, making its way to the door, when he opens it with a grunt. There she is at last, his Omega. Just as nature intended her - naked and needy for him. Her eyes widen in surprise, and he realizes she's staring at him. Well, not at him per se. But at his cock hard jutting out from his thighs and the ring of soft tissue at its base. Clarke opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. She looks a little frightened, but he's too focused on her heavy breasts, tinged a powder pink with sharp little nipples, to fully register it.
"Omega." He barely gets the word out. It's heavy, soaked in syrup in his mouth.
When he grabs for her wrist, she lets him pull her inside the shower and slam the door behind her. A moment later, he has her pressed against the wet wall, body tight against hers. Clarke whimpers and tries to slip her leg to the outside of his, give herself something to grind down on he thinks in a moment of spontaneous cohesive thought.
"This is your hormones," he whispers darkly. "I know you. You're going to regret it."
"No," she shakes her head fast, fingertips flying upward to wrap around his biceps. "I want it to be you."
Something akin to a thundering stampede of African rhinos breaks out in his gut.
"You could get pregnant," he warns. Surely that of all things will send her screaming from the room. She doesn't want a baby. He doesn't know that for sure exactly - they've never talked about that. They barely tolerate each other most days for God's sake. Whatever, he knows one thing with absolute certainty. She doesn't want his baby.
"I've taken my pills every day for years. I won't. Not this time."
This time? This time? THIS TIME?
"You're a nurse," he hisses despite him lower half urging him to shut up and push into her already. One of his hands is lightly pulsing the fleshy skin of her hip, while the other inches up her ribcage in search of the bountiful fat he needs to taste in his mouth. "It's a risk, and you know it."
"I don't care," Clarke says desperately, writhing underneath him. The dampness of her folds is suddenly sliding up the hard muscle of his thigh. He curses under his breath. "You're worth the risk."
His eyes fly wide open at the words. He slides the hand at her hip straight up her spine to cradle the back of her neck and make her look at him. Lightning crackles in his veins.
"You saying you want to obey me, Omega?"
Clarke blushes, drops her neck in a full bow of submission he's never seen from her. "Yes," she whispers. "I'm yours if you want me. If I'm . . . " he hears her gulp. "Acceptable to you."
He's going to choke and die right here and now with his heart in his throat.
"Clarke," he manages her name brokenly, demandingly, reverently. "Look at me."
Slowly, she does. There's a raw connection there now she's not trying to suppress like she usually does. Bellamy hovers over her, wrapping his hands above her elbows. Her scent is all around him in the mist of the shower, a sweet sugar cloud he wants to lick up. His gulp's audible to him.
"It's up to you," he can't believe he's giving this to her. "Do nothing, and I walk away. Do something, and I'm not going to be responsible for whatever happens next because I don't know how this works."
A flicker of confusion passes over her face, but then her mouth parts in an O of understanding. She nods, as if to tell him she gets what he's saying, realizes how precarious the bridge he's laid in front of her is which she can either cross or burn down.
Carefully, Clarke raises herself up on her tiptoes and buries her nose in the crook of Bellamy's neck. He breathes sharply the moment she inhales, releasing her as her arms come up to wrap around his slick waist. He stays very still, sensing her heartbeat against his chest. He's lightheaded, dizzier than he can remember being in a long time.
"Alpha," she breathes shakily into his skin, nuzzling herself into the spot that fits her perfectly. He nearly convulses when her slippery tongue darts out to taste his collarbone.
After what feels like an eternity, she pulls away, leaning back into the wall. Her eyes are dark on his, and the tense cord within him that's been fraying this whole time finally snaps sharply.
He closes the distance between them, claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss.
Tiny grenades burst open in Clarke’s stomach the moment Bellamy’s lips touch hers. Everything about him is always large and full of quiet energy. His mouth is no different. She squeaks in surprise at the sweet, insistent pressure of the kiss, tilting her head a little to the side for a better angle. He’s not as forceful as she would have expected, but she can hear his desire building in the deep grumble that rips from his throat as he pins her slick hips to the wet wall behind her. Then the edge of his tongue moves slow and steady across her bottom lip, barely grazing it. She moans the breath of his name, a whispered Bell of recognition, and isn’t surprised when he takes the opportunity to slip inside her mouth. Clarke’s blood hums approvingly at the taste of him. There’s just the hint of mint like he recently chewed gum. Her hands, which had fallen tentatively to his waist before, now clutch at his slippery skin, urging him closer even though it’s impossible.
This is what they meant. Yes. Yes. It’s everything. It’s not enough.
A minute passes, maybe two. They’re completely caught up in finding an easy give-and-take. There is no clacking of teeth or sharp bites at pillowed lips like Clarke anticipated. Just firm and gentle exploratory kisses like he’s trying to familiarize himself with her essence. Even the steely warmth of his erection pressing into the softness of her belly doesn’t scare her like she thought it would. She’s meant to mate with him. There isn’t a doubt in her mind that he’s the partner nature has in mind for her, her Alpha. Maybe it’s her hormones, or her heat. It could be his smirk she can sense twitching against her mouth or the memory of being caught up in his arms when he carried her to bed. No matter which one, it’s all very real and more intoxicating than liquor.
Her fingers twitch to twine into his matted hair, slick like oil, but he pulls away before she can attempt it. Bellamy glides his palms up and down over her ribcage in a slow rhythm, staring at her with wide, dark eyes. Clarke’s breath catches on the last slide when the side of his thumb presses infinitesimally against the rich underside of her breast. Something sharp spasms between her legs, and then the next waves of slick are overtaking her.
“Clarke.” It’s broken, gritty, strained, her name falling from his mouth.
Her eyes flit to his, one hand clenching and unclenching behind his back to steady herself even while the other stays wrapped around his hip. He didn’t call her Omega – that show of restraint alone impresses her even though it may be trivial. She can see now how he’s a renegade satellite searching for the light of his own star. Bellamy is hesitant, chest moving up and down more quickly than usual. She has the thought to press her mouth to the divot between his toned abs and lick the remaining salt from his workout off his skin. His fingers ghosting over the back of her neck tear her attention away from the fantasy. Her body heats instantly and thrums like it’s losing control on the way to combustion.
His lust smashes into her, a tidal wave sending her palm smacking back into the wall. But that’s not what makes her hand go clammy, slipping around in search of purchase. Bellamy’s hand settles at the base of her neck as if to cushion her head. A shimmer of love so intense it bleeds into his arousal, diluting it greatly, hits her next. There’s fear in his face when he watches her.
“I know you’re scared,” he says carefully.
“Wouldn’t you be?” Her throat is so dry the words barely spill out.
The corner of his lip twitches upward. “You have more to lose,” he concedes.
“This isn’t a typical situation.”
Even so, her hips rise slightly of their own accord, seeking out his. Clarke whimpers when the swollen front of her clit manages to brush past the head of his damp cock. She throws back her head, exposing her neck to him without thought, too overcome to think for a minute.
Bellamy hisses and tenses. His self-control was obliterated a few minutes ago. He catches a few of his veins popping in his arms. This girl is really going to kill him. Even so, she’s sweet and fragile pinned against him like this. The fire, which normally blazes in her eyes when she deals with him, has softened to a smolder he could get used to.
“What do you want, sweetheart?”
He hears her gulp over the shower’s waterfall. Then she smiles at him cautiously and runs her fingers into the matted down wetness of his hair. The gesture gives him goose bumps.
Alphas aren’t supposed to ask Omegas what they want. That much she knows for sure. She suddenly, desperately, wants whatever would make him happy, but even through her hormonal haze, she doesn't think she'll ever say that. At least not now. Not yet.
"Come on, Bellamy." Her insistent annoyance makes him chuckle despite himself.
She pouts, rising up on her tiptoes as if trying to kiss him, but he backs away one half-step just in time. The motion allows her breasts to bounce gently, and his eyes get caught up in the motion. He takes her in, his angelically feisty Omega. Her hair is darker, some form of medium brown, at the roots, wet and sleek against the cerulean tiles of his shower. Her mouth is a pretty bow though her cheekbones seem a fraction more defined than usual, and he can see her collarbones easily, maybe too easily. Clarke's breasts are plump and perfect, her stomach mostly flat and coasting down to the pretty curves of her thighs. There's a thatch of blonde curls nestled between her thighs, and a bit of fluid pressing out of her folds that his nose won't let him ignore. Bellamy would drop to his knees right now to lick the taste of it into his mouth if there weren't other things to consider. Like sending her running from the room like a spooked doe. His eyes trace back up past her belly button and capture the thin outline of her top ribs.
He wonders momentarily if she's been working too hard and not eating enough. No matter, he'll feed her and their kids. He'll take them all on weekend trips to the grocery store and let them pick out their favorite ingredients and--
"Alpha." His attention snaps back into focus when Clarke's cool, thin fingers wrap around his wrist and squeeze it before letting it go. She's blushing, probably from the heated way his gaze just swept over her form. Her hands knead at the muscle of his hips. He's never seen her eyelids flutter so much. "I want you to help me get through my heat."
Bellamy nods, remembering the task at hand.
"I want to," he widens his eyes so she can capture the sincerity of his words, pressing her back into the wall with careful arms and stepping between her knees once he's knocked them apart with his own. "But if I mark you--" his hand dances over the gland at the back of her neck, light as a caress, "we both know it's permanent."
Clarke whimpers at the words, arching her core up against the hardness of his thigh muscle. The poor thing really can't wait much longer - it must be agony. She bites her lip, then nods.
"I know," she whispers into his shoulder before kissing a patch of freckles there. "It's ok." There's a long pause and then a gulp of air. "Show me what being your Omega means."
Her little hand slips down and catches one of his at her waist, interlocking their fingers. Bellamy lets out a huff of breath against the side of her head. Relief and shock pulse through him in equal measures. His heart's beating as fast as a hummingbird's. She's going to let him mark her, mate with her, maybe even marry her.
When he draws back, he sees the desire flooding her sky blue eyes. Thrumming, he leans down to kiss her hungrily, catching her gasp and melting it back into her tongue. In a remote corner of his mind, he senses her hands tracing patterns on the muscles of his back, wiping trails of water away and biting into the sides of his biceps. But as his mouth moves from her lips to her jawline and lower to her neck, he senses her scent gland shimmering somehow. In a moment of biological insight, he covers her right breast fully in his palm and grips it like he's testing the ripeness of a mango, using a thumb to run around and around the tight budding peak of her nipple. The moment he feels her leaning into the pleasure, he sinks his teeth into her hard and fast to stake his claim.
Clarke touches the red-rimmed mark gingerly when he pulls away. He can see her carrying the pain from the act in her face.
"Sorry," he mumbles, shaggy bangs falling across his forehead as he looks down at her pedicured toes. "Never done that before. Might've gotten carried away--"
Don't let him think he did anything wrong the voice is back at once, urgent and insistent in her mind.
"Shh, shh, shh," Clarke shakes her head. She wraps her arms around his waist and kisses him chastely, drawing him back with her to the wall.
He fences her in with his biceps, kissing her deeply. His cock tightens a little bit more each time the tips of her nipples brush against his chest. Clarke senses it smearing precum across her skin now whenever he shifts but finds she doesn't mind much. She widens her stance, hoping their strange telepathic-like connection conveys the message to him because she's not sure she's up for the verbal task. Fortunately, Bellamy's smirk tells her they're on the same wavelength.
"You're dripping for me, Princess. Aren't you?"
His thumb circles once around her belly button before flirting with the jut of her hipbone and edging closer to her inner thigh. "Answer me." Iron coats his voice.
"I think that's obvious," she manages, jerking when the tips of his fingers grace the underside of her folds.
His musk is everywhere, a hurricane she's trapped in the middle of. But his eyes are so black now that she imagines her scent is having the same heady effect on him that his is on her. His thick fingers flirt with her entrance, running around it enough times that she thinks she might scream or explode. But then Bellamy pulls away from her, bringing his slick-soaked fingers to his mouth and sucking on them as she watches caught between arousal and embarrassment.
"Don't be upset. I'll spend plenty of time playing with you later, Omega," he purrs, capturing her hand and drawing it up to his cock.
She's avoided looking directly at it much. From the few glances she's managed, she knows it's thicker than the few she's seen before. It's going to stretch her. It might hurt. Still, despite that, her eyes are drawn to the ring of tissue marking Bellamy's knot. She knows it'll inflate and latch on to her inner walls, holding him deep inside her body while he pumps her full of his come. It's going to happen so many times over the next few days that there's no way she'll ever see a negative pregnancy test at the end of it.
Bellamy taps her chin with two fingers, pulling her eyes to his. "Keep your attention on what's important, Omega," he demands in a deep voice she's had mere teasers of before. A shiver runs through her frame. Obey your Alpha! You must not displease him. Will she be stuck with this voice for the rest of her life now?
"You ever touched an Alpha's cock, baby?"
Clarke shakes her head no.
"Well no time like the present." He wraps her fingers around his hard length and raises an eyebrow at her.
He's hard in her hand, but warm and smooth too. Somehow, just the act of touching him soothes the anxious tremors rolling through her body. She closes her eyes and sighs, moving her hand languidly up and down his length. Bellamy feels her relaxing she knows. She thinks he might feel just about everything she does as long as it's intense enough.
He kisses the side of her damp head, teeth dropping to nibble down on her earlobe while she gently explores the ring of soft tissue at the base of his cock.
"It's gonna fill up inside you, Princess," he whispers to her. "It's gonna lock me inside you, so I can breed you the right way."
A shivery wave sends a flood of goose bumps over Clarke's skin. She barely recognizes the sound of the moan that gurgles in her throat as Bellamy starts to kiss it.
"Is that what you want? To have my babies?" he continues while mouthing at her pulse point. His own words come out more shuttered when her hand clenches a little too tight around him.
Clarke bites down on her lip. Her mind races. Her biology is screaming yes while her mind ricochets back in equal measure that she's totally lost it. She's doing absolutely everything she swore to her parents she never would. They wanted her to have a stable job she liked, to marry a Beta, to travel and see the world. Only after two glasses of wine would her father even bring up her putting her artistic skills to more use. Simply using them as a hobby was a stretch for her parents, mainly because they knew she had to stay useful and blend into normal society to remain safe. So allowing herself to fall into an Alpha's arms because her heat had been triggered in his presence? Yeah. That definitely wasn't part of the plan.
"I ... I ... I..."
Clarke's hand falls away from him and ghosts across her thigh instead.
"I know you're scared about what being an Omega means," Bellamy clears his throat. He catches her chin and peers into her eyes in a way that makes her feel both incredibly seen and chronically uncomfortable all at once. "About what being my Omega means."
"I don't want--" she gasps as Bellamy slides the length of his cock against her glistening cunt, calling forth sensations she didn't know were possible. "To be like your slave or something. I want you, I--" She smacks his shoulder when he smirks warmly down at her. "But you're not keeping me locked up here all day like a pet."
"Someone gave you a very skewed view of Alphas. Well, good Alphas," Bellamy grumbles. His large hands find the backs of Clarke's thighs with ease and haul her up into his arms. She hears the squeak of the water turning off.
"I didn't even finish my shower, but--"
"I like your scent," she fills in quickly, breathlessly. Her nose is tucked near the nape of his neck where his musk is stronger.
"I'll keep that in mind," Bellamy laughs.
He leaves her on the fluffy grey throw rug and quickly grabs a towel to wrap around her shoulders, rubbing some warmth into them with his hands. He steers clear of any erogenous zone, which does absolutely nothing for the heavy ache settling into her breasts and the absolute deluge threatening to spill down her thighs. His touch is gentle and sure, and she can't help but take in his pupils, which have expanded to four times their normal size. When he's finished, he stands up and dries himself before facing her properly. Bellamy leaves a hand on her hip that she's grateful for when it proves grounding.
"Good Alphas take care of their Omegas. That's my job," he says so solemnly that for a second she feels like she's talking to a different person. "It's my responsibility. I'd never let anything happen to you, Clarke. Ok?"
Even though her gut knows instinctively the truth of his words, has seen it demonstrated vividly several times already, it still takes her a full thirty seconds to react. But then she nods and says "yes, Alpha."
"Good girl." He yanks loosely at the towel she's got pinned under her arms like cotton armor, and it falls in a heap to the ground.
He allows both hands to knead at her plump breasts, capturing the cry of surprise from her mouth with a kiss that brooks no argument. Clarke's tailbone digs into the sink counter, but it only hurts a moment before Bellamy is tugging her by the hand down the hall toward his room. She's flush all over her body, which itself is zinging with high-voltage electricity. Maybe she'll pass out and wake up and realize this was all a dream. But even her creative mind, so good at sketching portraits, couldn't dream up the divots and dimples in Bellamy's broad, tan back or the scrap of scar tissue that curls toward his ribs on his left side. Maybe being his sex toy won't be so bad.
Clarke shakes her own head to clear the thought. The moments of lucidity are getting briefer and farther between the more she gets to feel his skin against hers.
"What about my job?" Clarke demands between hot kisses, finding herself suddenly pinned against Bellamy's doorframe without a true understanding of how it happened.
"What about it?"
"I still want to work!"
"No argument here," Bellamy draws back and pushes some blonde hairs away from the middle of her forehead.
The tiny crease he loves so much forms between her eyebrows but then she swallows and seems to accept his answer.
"And Alphas can't abandon their Omegas, can they?"
He frowns, and she can sense the puzzlement wafting from him, streaked with anger though she knows it's not directed at her.
"Who was stupid enough to--"
"It doesn't matter," she answers too quickly, heart hammering. Finn barely matters he's such a distant memory, and Lexa proved manipulative and dangerous in the end. Cillian is just a night she wishes she could wipe out entirely.
Bellamy breathes hard through his nose for a second, but then his eyes clear and he's smiling that boyish one at her that always makes her stomach swoop. "You're mine for life, Princess." He squeezes her ass affectionately, and she finds that somehow she believes him.
Relief courses through her for a moment. Their next kiss begins tranquilly, sweet and delicious before morphing into something rougher. She keens when two of his thick fingers thrust up into the tight heat between her legs, locking her gaze with his.
"I asked you a question you didn't answer before." His voice is melodic and entrancing but contains an edge of danger that causes the delicate hairs on the back of her neck to rise.
Clarke's head falls automatically as though her neck muscles turned to jello. Despite wanting to squirm against his fingers, to drive them deeper inside her body, she forces her voice calm. "Yes, Alpha?"
"Don't be scared. You're my sweet Princess, aren't you?" Bellamy's rough thumb rubs against her clit, and she sees stars, nearly falling into the door. "Are you ready to be bred? I know you're gonna be so good at this."
She flushes a flaming beet color but whispers "Yes, I'm ready for your knot, Alpha," and thrusts her hips finally into the heaviness of his touch.
Bellamy grins vibrantly. When his fingers pull from her body, she misses the full feeling immediately. He rubs the slickness across her sensitive nipples as her body temperature spikes.
Clarke's never been inside Bellamy's room before, but all she really notices is that his blankets are soft burgundy, and stacks of books cover most of the flat surfaces before she's flat on her back.
She can appreciate just how much larger than her he is when he's crawling over her body. Her heart beats an out-of-rhythm tattoo as he settles heavily into the space between her legs. She arches up to bury her fingers in his hair and kiss him. He allows it for a minute but then peels back her wrists and pins them to the bed on either side of her. When she tries to protest, he presses his mouth back to hers, and the glide of his tongue brings a renewed sense of calm.
"Wrap your legs around me and behave," he half-chides.
The feel of the tip of his dripping cock nuzzling against her folds sends rockets of anticipation off in her belly. Her blood heats up, and the hollowness within her expands.
She cries out when his cock opens her up for the first time, a solid thrust of his hips, which buries him halfway inside her body. She was right - he's thicker than the others she's been with.
"You're ok," Bellamy soothes her when she whimpers loudly. He kisses her cheek and then her jawbone.
"You're so perfect, Clarke," he murmurs, catching up both of her wrists swiftly and pinning them over her head. He uses his free hand to latch onto her ass when he draws back and slams harder into her body. She moans out his name in a delirious combination of pressure and pleasure. Her knees tighten around his hips. This is what her body was singing for. "And now your Alpha is going to show you who you belong to."
There's no doubt Bellamy is showing her she belongs to him. With every press of his fingers to her hip or brush of his mouth along her collarbone, she soars higher and higher to a place unknown. It feels good. So, so good. Better than Clarke ever allowed herself to imagine in those drowsy minutes between sleep and wakefulness.
"You were made for me, Omega," Bellamy whispers to her when she cries out at the sensation of his cock dragging unexpectedly along the rounded bit of sensitive tissue wedged deep inside her.
"Yes," she purrs, blue eyes growing hazy.
"Tell me. Say it."
He lets go of her wrists suddenly and stills above her. A tiny rivulet of sweat is winding down his neck from the restraint he's trying to maintain. As blood rushes back into her fingertips, she latches her hands to his shoulders and leans forward slightly to lick it up. Her walls grip him tighter with the new angle, and her mouth falls open.
"I'm yours," Clarke whispers into his chest. "I was made for you."
"That's right, beautiful." Bellamy throws her a cheeky grin and slips a hand between their bodies to find the bump of cushioned marble at the apex of her thighs. "Relax and let me all the way inside."
Electricity pumps through her when he lands on her clit. She's dripping wet - it's ridiculous really. She knows it's the only thing stopping the experience from being painful. So she can't deny how much her body wants him, craves everything about him. She takes a deep breath and lets her shoulders relax in order to press them back into his mattress. His mouth follows hers, licking its way inside like it's on an exploratory mission. It's all overwhelming - the smell of him soaking into the dark fabric and rushing into every corner of her brain.
Bellamy pulls back his hips until just the tip of his cock presses inside her opening. She whines, swiping her hand at his chin and missing when he dodges the motion.
"Be good, Omega." He flicks at her beaded nipple, which tightens exponentially. "You've got to take my whole cock for me to knot you. Do you think you can do that?"
"I can. I can," Clarke babbles. He's leaning on his elbows above her now, his other hand joining in to pinch her other nipple and run the underside of his thumbnail against it.
"Ok." His brown eyes fasten on hers as he presses back inside her, slower this time. She bites her lip hard against the thorough stretching. He doesn't stop until he's seated fully inside her warmth.
"Such a good girl," he hisses, closing his eyes.
Her walls grip every bump and crevice of him, knocking the breath from her lungs. When he pulls out, she sighs at the momentary relief. But then he presses right back inside.
"Jesus, you're tight," he grunts.
He drops lower so their chests can barely brush and leaves a chaste kiss on her cheek before pulling out and thrusting his hips against her with more force. It takes only a few tries for her hips to rise in the same steady rhythm as his. She wants it to be good for time, too.
Minutes later, she grins when she sees his abs tightening in restraint but quickly yelps when Bellamy grabs onto the flesh of her ass to pull her even closer.
"You ready for me to breed you, Princess?" Bellamy bites at her jaw, his words hot below her ear. She groans when he withdraws completely.
She tries to squirm when the head of his cock knocks into her clit, but he pushes her down into the bed.
"Yes," she nods, scrambling to dive a hand into his curls and pull his mouth back to hers.
"Why?" he pants when they break apart.
She only takes a couple seconds to consider her words.
"Because you're my Alpha."
His answering grin is white as an iceberg. Bellamy dives down to leave sloppy, open-mouthed kisses above her breasts while she laughs.
"And because this feels good," Clarke groans. "Really good."
He stills and chuckles, low and dark, and it sends a shiver through her. Bellamy slides a tan hand over her ivory belly before patting it twice. "Get up on your hands and knees for me. Face the wall."
For a moment, she's confused and achy. But as soon as she obeys, the coarse hair low on his thighs chafes against the back of hers, and his cock rests thick and heavy along her folds. He presses one hand into the front of her leg to hold her against him and lets the other rub at the nub between her legs until her ass arches back into his groin.
"Here we go," he sings out, slipping two fingers into her impossibly warm wetness. He fingers around her entrance and presses against the tissue right inside. "My knot'll stretch you right open."
Clarke's too far past words. She nods once then lets her head drop in submission. His cock slides past her lips easily, and he wastes no time pressing it up against her cervix and making her spine curl.
"Yes, please, more," she pants, clawing at the sheets while he pistons in and out of her.
She can feel the rubbery tissue of his knot low on her ass now. A steady bubbling builds in her belly, causing her to keen for Bellamy as she tightens around him.
"I know. You're so full. You're gonna come on my cock, hmmm?" He bends down to press a kiss to the freckle on her left shoulder. "Go on," he rubs her clit meanly between his fingers and pushes as far inside as he can. "Do it."
Clarke cries out as white spots of light erupt in front of her vision. Her cunt convulses around him, rippling endlessly until she no longer has the energy to hold herself up properly and starts to slump toward the sheets.
"Oh no you don't," Bellamy grunts, wrapping a strong arm around her belly and pulling her upright. "Here comes your knot, Omega." And then it's pressing into her and latching at her entrance. Her head falls back heavily against his shoulder as his hot come fills her body.
It seems to go on for minutes. But when he finally deflates, she collapses onto her back and reaches for Bellamy's neck to kiss him. But he shakes his head. Gently reaching a hand between her parted thighs, he catches a bit of his fluids seeping out of her and presses them back inside.
He makes her stew for dinner. They eat at the kitchen table while the golden lights of Arkadia's taller buildings begin to glow as the sun sets in earnest. She's wearing one of Bellamy's red plaid shirts and a plain white cotton pair of panties. He's opted for just his boxers, but it's not like she's complaining about the view. She's definitely sore, feeling as though she ran several miles. But it's nice to leave her legs propped up in Bellamy's lap while he massages her calves. They were talking about the summer a little while ago. Bellamy said it would be nice to go the beach, and once the idea of him tickling her in the ocean waves and carrying her on his back shows up in her mind, it's hard to dispel the vision.
But they've been quiet for the last five minutes or so. Clarke pushes her spoon around through the thick brown gravy and fishes out the final bit of beef and carrot. She's not familiar enough with experiencing heats to really understand what's going on. Her cheeks feel like they're flushing though, and a small pool of sweat is forming at the base of her back. She feels a little shaky, like the spoon might clatter into the side of the china bowl without her say-so.
She looks up to find Bellamy's watchful gaze on her.
"I think so, just tired," she says softly.
He stares at her a little longer before seeming to accept her answer and nudging her feet back to the ground. Something sharp lurches in her at the loss of skin-to-skin contact, and she gives a little yelp. Bellamy's standing, his hands full of dishes, and his eyebrows shoot up.
"I'm ... fine," she tries to sound convincing. "Hard bit of grizzle."
Bellamy smiles sheepishly. "Sorry," he says then grabs her bowl too and heads to the sink.
She grips the side of the table as soon as his back's turned. A hot wave crests over her vibrating shoulders, flowing down through her chest and into her belly. It's the slick seeping out of her and into her clean underwear that tell her she's been defeated.
"Alpha?" she calls out to him quietly. But he's already looking at her.
"It's back," he says firmly.
"How did you know?"
"I can smell you."
He walks back to her side.
Her blush shoots into the roots of her hair. She's never been a victim of her biology before; her parents did everything to stop that from happening. Yet as she looks at Bellamy smirking down at her and running a lone finger up her arm, she can't help but think maybe nature isn't such a horrible guide.
"I need you," she chokes out as a sharp pulsing strikes between her legs.
Bellamy slides his boxers off and strokes himself a few times before sitting back down on the wood chair.
"Stand up," he orders her.
She gets weakly to her feet and he hooks his thumbs into the sides of her underwear, pulling the cloth deftly downward and keeping his eyes on hers. He rubs the back of her thigh, sending goosebumps flaring up, and urges her forward toward his lap where his red-brown cock is already half-hard.
His hand is warm when it burrows between her thighs and strokes the soft skin hidden there.
"Get on your knees, Omega," his voice drops an octave.
Her mouth salivates as she kneels before him. He threads a hand tight into her hair. She lets him smear the tip of himself against her pink lips for a moment, teasing him.
"Open up," he circles her jaw and presses his thumb into the hollow of her cheek. "You're gonna suck until I tell you to stop, baby, ok? Don't fight me."
Clarke presses her thighs together and nods fervently. "Yes, Alpha," she manages before he's thrusting into her mouth.
He starts slowly, just pushing himself halfway inside. She does her best to lap at the underside of him and swirl the tip of her tongue along his slit even though she's already being half-choked.
A fear tears slip out of her eyes, but he just wipes them away with his thumb and shushes her whimpers.
"More, Princess," he urges.
Bellamy squeezes her breast while she works, and she grasps onto his thigh in turn. He rolls his hips into her face in a smooth rhythm that builds over time, all the while pressing his fingers into the back of her neck and urging her closer, closer, closer until he's like granite and her gag-reflex is activated.
"Very good, Omega," he praises, pulling back at last. She glows under the kindness in his tone and wonders momentarily how this happened.
But the next moment he's pulling her up by the waist and bringing her forward to straddle his hips. He sinks her down delicately onto his cock, and it's a breach just like the first time. But she's so blissfully full, and her Alpha is smiling at her, taking pity on her and unbuttoning her top before closing his lips around her aching nipple.
She moans and sinks into the planes of his chest, feeling her slick coating his lap in the process, when his wide hand spans the small of her back and rests there.
"Ride me, sweetheart," he whispers into her hair. "Ride me until I breed you again."
Clarke should be cold. But she's not. She's definitely not. The air conditioning unit runs well and now that the weather is slowly turning stickier, Bellamy is using it more. But her back is pressed up against his hot chest, and she's snuggled down underneath soft blankets. An easy contentment settles in her heart and glows there like a lantern in the night. Bellamy has one arm wrapped around her waist. The pads of his fingers brush against her skin. She makes small, contented noises into her pillow, enjoying the feel of Bellamy's shaggy locks along her bare shoulder.
"You doing ok?" His gruff voice breaks the silence.
She smiles sleepily but tries to mask it when she maneuvers around to face him.
"I'm good. You good, Blake?"
"Perfect." She tries not to get too excited by this. You've pleased your Alpha. You fit here with your Alpha.
He widens his eyes at her playfully and half-shrugs. "Who am I to argue with Mother Nature?"
She beams at him then, staring into his dark eyes for a few long moments. She discovers some humor there. "She is a tough boss for sure," Clarke jokes.
"She'd have to be to make you submit."
She can tell it's a joke; nevertheless, Clarke senses the stiffening of his shoulder muscles as soon as he says it.
Her mouth twitches briefly, caught somewhere between affection and amusement. It's surprising, the lack of annoyance she would have felt only yesterday. But the tenderness between her legs is still there in the background, reminding her of how it felt to have his weight on top of her body. The need for him is less than it was an hour ago, but it's still there, a dull throb she's not sure will ever go away completely now that it's begun. Besides, she can feel his worry, his concern for her vibrating in pulsing waves right off his skin.
She leans forward and brushes her lips against his chastely.
"Nothing to be sorry for."
His raised black eyebrow is almost comical.
"Mmmm." Clarke wraps her hands around his neck and snuggles down lower into the dip of the mattress, so Bellamy has no choice but to slide over her.
"You are my Alpha after all," she tells him. It still makes her palms a little sweaty to be this vulnerable. Yet her brain sings with delight, seemingly lighting up every feel-good neurotransmitter she's got at the words. She imagines a rainbow network firing in her head.
Bellamy dips a hand between their bodies and rubs casually across the triangular patch of blonde curls tucked between her upper thighs.
"Can you make it through the night?" he teases, biting his lip. "Or are you gonna need me again?"
Her sass rears through her stomach for a moment strong enough to be felt. "I'm sure I'll be just fine."
The fingers of her right hand find his mark effortlessly, drawn to it like magic. His eyes darken when she rubs it and reaches up her free hand to push a lock of hair out of his eyes. Bellamy kisses her hungrily, stroking his tongue into her mouth in a steady, building rhythm that leaves her panting. She never knew someone could taste so good. But it's the squeeze of her breast and pinch of her nipple that does her in. Clarke arches up against his boxers, not even embarrassed by the moisture stains she might leave behind.
"You want a baby with me that bad, Princess?"
Bellamy smiles crookedly down at her, and her heart flips over. She flushes and turns her head into his pillow. Maybe it's biological, or at least that's how the urges started. And of course nature only cares if she leaves behind a kid with her DNA. But she knows it's much more than that with him. It's everything she's been fighting, and now all she wants is time to figure out who they are together. There's hope fluttering around his frame.
"Not ... immediately," she kind of cringes when she admits it, bracing herself for whatever reaction comes next.
He nods, briefly leaning his forehead against hers. She strokes up the side of his ribs. "I'll get a condom, Clarke. I'm not an animal."
Relief pours through her blood at his concern. "You could've fooled me," she nips at the stubble on his jaw. "But I don't think that's how this works."
"Your knot - I mean, that's the point of it, right? To make sure you..."
"Fuck a baby into you?"
She slaps his shoulder, and he laughs. "I thought you weren't an animal."
"It comes and goes in waves." Bellamy shifts onto his back and pulls her down against his chest. "Why don't we try to sleep and figure all of that out tomorrow?"
Bellamy wakes to Clarke whining in the night. Her body is coated with a thin, glistening sweat, and she's starting to shake. With just a small shift of her body, he can smell a trail of moisture seeping out of her.
"Bell ... Bell ... Bell ..." she pokes at his arm, wrapping her hand around his bicep until he stirs.
"What is it?" he asks groggily.
"Please. I need you. Please."
He shifts into alert mode almost immediately. "Ok, Princess. It's all right." He kisses her shoulder and reaches behind him to open up his bedside drawer, rustling around inside it
"No," Clarke whispers. "Don't bother."
"I thought you said--"
She shakes her blonde head, still vibrant from the moon light streaming in through the blinds they never closed. "I remembered what Dr. Tsing told me. You'll break through the condom, so unless you pull out-"
"I can do that," he tries.
"But I'll still be in pain," her voice sounds weaker to him. Anxiety flashes through him, but he swallows it down. They're already been careless, driven by pheromones and hormones and everything he never paid attention to in that biology unit. Maybe her pills have been enough of a cover, but he's sure even that window is rapidly closing.
Clarke Griffin is nothing if not full of surprises.
"Ok." He starts shushing her as soothingly as possible. She luminous like this, spread out on her side with her pale skin glowing and pleading blue eyes begging with him from over her shoulder.
He lifts up her right leg and hooks it around his own before splaying a hand over her stomach. Bellamy pushes inside her warm heat without preamble - it's not like she needs prepping. He hisses at the perfection of it and speeds up his thrusts the more she whines. Soon she's rocking her hips back against his and grasping frantically for his hand. When he covers her fingers with his, she latches onto them, and he swears his heart nearly explodes. She doesn't quiet down until his knot has inflated inside her and begun to release his seed deep into her body. His brain nearly short circuits at the sensation. Now that he's had Clarke, he knows nobody else will ever compare.
"Thank you," Clarke blinks up at him, tilting her head up for a kiss he readily gives her.
"It's not like it's a burden," he responds, reaching for a fluffier pillow to slip under her neck. His fingers pass over the mark he left there in the shower, and he sees the goosebumps erupt on her skin at the gesture.
"Yeah ... but you're taking care of me."
He can't argue with that.
Cheerful yellow morning light fills the room. When Bellamy reaches for his phone, he groans. The lock screen is overrun by messages from his sister demanding to know why the hell he stood her up for bagels and cream cheese at their favorite local deli, Grounders. The space beside him is empty and cool. In the distance, he hears the sound of running water and knows Clarke is in her own shower. He misses her already, and she fucking lives with him.
As a distraction, he calls his sister. The phone rings once before Octavia's growl is in his ear.
"You stood me up, big brother."
"Yeah... sorry about that. I got to bed late, umm, preparing final exams for the department. Professor Kane asked me to edit them for typos."
His stomach rolls in mild nausea. He hates lying to Octavia.
"Uh huh. See, I would believe that. But when you didn't show after an hour, I started texting Clarke. And the funny thing is I didn't hear anything from her either."
Damn. He's so screwed.
"Nah, save it. You two had enough sexual tension, I could've cut it with a knife."
Bellamy sighs, sucks a calming breath into his lungs. He doesn't know how much he can say. But he knows he can't betray Clarke's confidence about her rank, and to be honest, he has no idea what they really are or will be to each other. What she'll let them be.
"We're just gonna see what happens, ok? We're taking it slow, so keep it to yourself please," he lays on the demanding big brother tone for good measure.
He can hear her roll her eyes.
"Yeah, yeah. See you for dinner at mom's on Friday?"
"I'll be there."
He's about to hang up when her voice cuts through the silence.
"I like her, so don't fuck this up."
Clarke agrees to have some of Bellamy's pancakes for brunch in exchange for him trying one of her fruit and vegetable smoothies. A small part of her wants him to eat more organic foods. The rest of her just wants an excuse to wrap her arms around his waist and stay glued to his side in the kitchen. They pass the majority of the afternoon watching House Hunters International and wondering aloud why Europeans don't care more about bathroom square footage. But Bellamy has no idea what house the couple in Germany chose because he was a little preoccupied with Clarke stroking him through his baggy sweatpants.
By mid-afternoon, he suggests ordering some Chinese food when his stomach grumbles. All the sex is making him hungry, not that he's complaining.
"Yes, Princess, I'll order a side of steamed broccoli," he promises before she can protest.
He's left her to set the table while he rifles around his room for his wallet when the doorbell rings. At first he doesn't think anything of it when her voice rings out for him. He said he'd pay, after all, and now that the delivery guy is here, she needs the money. But the second call of Bellamy! through the long hallway brings him moving swiftly to the front door.
He hears her before he sees her. "No, I've never been to Aruba, but I'm sure it's lovely." What the delivery guy says next sends white hot anger flooding his system. "I'd love to see you in a bikini on the beach there." He turns the corner into the foyer swiftly. Clarke's wearing a hot pink sundress that brushes the tops of her knees and is cinched-in at the waist. He can see between her breasts if she bends over, but otherwise, the outfit is modest enough. Well, that's what he thought. However now that he can see the way the delivery guy is leering at her, he feels a snarl building in his throat. Paxton the cheap plastic name tag says on the asshole's uniform.
"Ah," Clarke's eyes light up when they see him approaching. "There's my mate. He'll pay you."
Paxton pales, and something primal hums inside Bellamy in satisfaction. He would smash this man's face into the ground first and ask questions later without a doubt. He curses himself for being so idiotic. Clarke is in goddamn heat. Of course another Alpha would be able to smell it on her, match or not. His fist curls around his wallet, squeezing the leather tightly.
"Here," he hisses, shoving a wad of crumpled bills at the man. He gets into his space, squaring his shoulders and staring him down.
"Go to the kitchen, Omega."
"Don't make me ask you twice," his eyes burn into hers, and she must feel his desperation and his regret because she takes off without another word.
"All the good ones are always taken," Paxton sighs as he pockets the cash.
"None of the good ones would want you," Bellamy spits. "Now get the fuck out of my house."
After Bellamy locks the door thoroughly, he marches back to the kitchen where he finds Clarke leaning over the sink. She glares at him. He sighs.
"I'm sorry, baby. I shouldn't have left you alone in your heat. That was irresponsible."
Clarke blinks at him.
"That's not why I'm upset," she says coldly. "We're new to this. It's going to take time to piece it all together."
A dose of relief blooms in his stomach. At least she's still saying we. "Then what--"
"You don't get to order me around!" she fills in the blanks, rounding on him.
"You liked it last night," he snarls back, somehow subconsciously ready for the assault. His head clears as the answer comes to him, bright as day.
"That was ... ugh ... different."
"It wasn't," he steps calmly toward her. "It's not. We belong to each other now. It's my job to protect you. I'm never going to apologize for that." He grasps the back of her thighs unexpectedly and lifts her into his arms. Her gasp of pleased surprise satisfies him, as does her relaxing into his body. “Fine,” she sighs like it’s some kind of burden, but he knows she doesn’t really think so by the glint in her eyes.
A few seconds later, Clarke finds her back against the wall of the living room. Bellamy's thick fingers probe under her dress only to find absolutely no barrier to her cunt. Meanwhile she fights off the shivers pulsing up her spine to tug his sweatpants down and free his erection.
"Dirty girl," he chides her.
"You're such a brute," she complains, fisting his hair in her grasp and twisting her hips to get more pressure on her clit.
"You love it."
Clarke half-smirks, swooping down to drop a kiss to his mouth. "I love you," she manages just as his cock parts her folds. The movement steals the words right out of her mouth.
Bellamy's eyes widen. He eases his thrusts into her and cradles her smooth cheek with a calloused hand.
"I love you too, Princess."
Clarke nods rapidly, suddenly overcome with the urge to cry. She knew he did, but it feels good to hear it nonetheless. She's safe in his arms and it's more than enough. Closing her eyes, she breathes in his sweet pine scent while he tucks his freckled face into her neck and continues to send her to the stars.
When Aurora calls the next day to make sure he's coming to dinner Friday, he tells her he would like for her to meet his soulmate.