She doesn’t really remember much of it.
She remembers the world feathering at the edges as it does when she’s had too much moonshine, remembers the skin of her neck and arms and legs prickling uncomfortably, but after that everything is just a blur of colours.
Clarke wakes up in the dirt with her legs tangled with Bellamy’s. Her throat aches and it hurts to speaks. A knife lies next to her and there’s blood on her hands.
There’s always blood on her hands.
It turns out to be Bellamy’s blood, and she feels the shock and guilt swirl violently together in her stomach. She watches as he hobbles away-- to a clinic, his quarters, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t go with him. He doesn’t say anything to her either.
The sky opens up as she shuffles to her own quarters, big, fat raindrops plopping against her skin. Her stomach lurches again and Clarke finds herself on her knees, the world spinning dangerously fast around her.
All you do is hurt people , a smokey voice hisses in her head, you infect them, you kill them.
She screws her eyes shut, bracing her hands on her thighs. Another lurch. She tastes bile in the back of her throat.
You’re the real monster.
Clarke leans over and gags, vomiting in the dirt right outside the apartments.
He finds her later.
After Clarke managed to pull herself up and off the ground, she stumbles into her small living quarters. It reminds her of the Ark, completely made out of metal and minimalist in style. She almost yearns for the machine hum of the engines in the background, yearns for a time when everything was alright and she was still good and warm and safe. She misses when things were good.
Instead she’s here millions of miles away on some unknown planet with a toxin that makes her go crazy and all her friends hate her.
It’s still raining and she still has blood on her hands.
She takes a bath.
She spends hours in the bath, hunched over the bucket of warm water that quickly goes cold. She can still hear the voices in her head, still feel the stickiness of the blood on her hands, so she scrubs her skin until it’s raw.
Clarke doesn’t leave her place, not even when the suns set and her stomach yells at her for food.
That’s when he shows up.
She knows it’s him even before she opens the door. No one else would come to find her. No one else would care to.
Bellamy doesn’t seem to be able to meet her eyes and she can’t blame him. They’ve both done such terrible things to each other.
She moves aside wordlessly and then winces as he limps in.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice still hoarse, and it’s his turn to flinch now as he turns to face her. He still can’t look at her directly.
“I’ve been better,” he says. “You?”
She offers a half shrug. “Same.”
She doesn’t mean to, but her eyes drift to the wound in his leg, blood dry and crusted on his pant leg, and her heart twists painfully in her chest.
“You should get off that leg,” she says, “We don’t need your stitches to burst or anything.”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, turning his head away. “Besides, I don’t have stitches to burst anyway.”
“What do you mean? A wound like that should have been stitched shut.”
“Look, I’m fine, Clarke, really.”
Realisation dawns on her. “You never went to the clinic, did you?”
The muscles in his jaw tics. “No.”
“ Bellamy .”
“It’s fine, I’ll deal with it,” he says, even as he leans against the wall for support.
She catches his eye and for the first time since he got here, he doesn’t look away.
“I know you think you deserve this,” she says slowly, to not scare him off, “But all that shit that happened out there? That wasn’t you. That wasn’t any of us. You can’t keep blaming yourself.”
“Yeah, well, someone has to.”
“So why does it always have to be you?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches and this time he has no answer for her.
“You weren’t at dinner,” he says, changing the topic.
“Wasn’t hungry,” she lies. Her stomach is about two seconds away from cannibalizing itself.
“You need to eat,” he chastises her as he tries to surreptitiously look about her room. It’s just as she imagined all of the small apartments are, an empty bookcase, a few cupboards and drawers for clothes, a wooden table with mismatched chairs. She had a bed too, tucked away in the far corner and mostly hidden from view by the odd jut of the wall which the bookcase laid against. It was as though someone was trying to separate the bedroom from the living space but gave up halfway.
“And you need to get off the leg,” she tells him, nudging a chair towards him with her boot. “Sit.”
“I’m the doctor. I’ll tell you when you’re fine,” she says, crossing her arms to glare at him. “Now take off your pants and sit.”
He stares at her. “What.”
“You heard me. Off,” she says, refusing to let the heat rise to her cheeks.
She turns around to give him some privacy under the pretence of looking for her med kit. It’s right there, in the topmost drawer, but she makes a show out of opening the cupboards looking for it.
“Either you take it off, or I cut through your only pair of pants. Your choice.”
Bellamy grumbles behind her but it’s quickly followed by the rustling of clothing and the sound of a zipper being pulled down.
By the time she turns around, Bellamy is slouched over in the chair, pants around his ankles and jackets hanging off the back of it. Clarke doesn’t have much of a reaction to seeing him in just his boxers and a t shirt. She’s seen him in less before, back at the dropship and Arkadia when he wouldn’t have anyone but her tend to his wounds despite her inexperience.
Still, she can’t help the warm bloom of hope that sprouts in her chest as she surveys his relaxed posture. Regardless of all that they’ve been through, the betrayals and the separations and everything , he still trusts her with this. It means a lot to Clarke that he does.
He hitches an eyebrow when he sees her just standing there and she makes a face at him.
“I can’t believe you didn’t go to medical for this,” she grumbles to try and ease the awkwardness that hangs thick in the air as she kneels between his spread legs. The wound doesn’t look too bad from here, and although it’s still sluggishly oozing blood, it isn’t that deep and she seemed to have missed any vital vessels and nerves, thank god.
Bellamy snorts. “Our only doctors are still on a ship miles up in space and I don’t trust these Sanctum healers or whatever the fuck they’re calling themselves.”
“ Shamans ,” she corrects him as she douses a cotton pad in rubbing alcohol and presses it to the wound.
He sucks in a breath through his teeth and his muscles go tense under her hand. “Fucking shamans acting like burning some sage and singing a hymn is gonna do any good. They’re worse than the grounders.”
She ducks her head to hide her grin. From what she remembers, the grounders considered anything more than poultices and tea, witchcraft. It took them months before the accepted that an x-ray machine wasn’t an elaborate ploy to kill them and the spirits that lived inside them.
“Time for stitches,” she warns him once she’s done cleaning all of the debris out. Bellamy just nods and tips his head back, letting his eyes fall shut as she readies the needle. The muscle in his jaw jumps each time she threads the needle through skin.
At this point suturing is mindless work for her. She’s patched up enough wounds to have the motions down by now, the trivial ease of pulling, knotting and snipping before repeating it over and over again.
“How’s everyone else feeling after, uh, all of that?” she asks, trying to make small talk.
He shrugs as much as he could without jostling her or his stitches too much. “Fine I think. Everyone’s mostly just retreated to their own corners to lick their wounds I guess. What happened between you and I was, um, the worst of it I think.”
“That’s good. Not for us but, ah. Good. For them.”
A thick, heavy silence slowly creeps over them, stifling everything in its path. Clarke finishes off a neat row of stitches and places a bandage over it just for posterity’s sake.
“There,” she says, grabbing her things and standing up. “All fixed.”
“Thanks, Clarke,” he says, with a soft quirk of his lips.
Bellamy is looking up at her from beneath his overgrown fringe and her breath catches for a moment as it hits her how close they’re standing, how she’s still between his legs, how easy it would be to just tangle her hands in his hair and--
“I’m going to clean these off,” she says, smoothly stepping out his space and quashing that daydream before it could even take off fully.
He clears his throat. “Right. I should, uh, get dressed.”
Her cheeks blaze. “Right.”
In the bathroom, she throws the bloodied pieces of cotton into the bin and tosses the tweezers and scissors in the bucket to deal with later. Clarke yanks the tap on and splashes her face with the cold water, once, then twice, in hopes of it bringing her back to her senses.
Once upon a time it used to be so easy to talk to him, to just be with him, through silence and conflict and almost anything. She knew that no matter what happened, she’d always have Bellamy in her corner and vice versa. Now, six years of separation later, where he learned to live his life without her, she doesn’t know where she stands with him, doesn’t even know how to act around him. They seem to do more harm than good to each other nowadays, hallucination induced stabbing notwithstanding. It’s just one miscommunication after the next, flinging back words in each other’s faces that feel like a slap to the cheek.
She turns the water off and wipes her hands on her jeans.
Bellamy is still there when she returns, hands hanging listlessly at his sides. He’s pulled up his pants but left the belt undone and it hangs low on his hips. Clarke’s eyes dart down to stare at it for a moment before darting back up to his face, blushing once more.
They stare at each other once more, letting the silence roll over them.
“Thank you for bringing me dinner,” she says with a jerky nod towards the plate.
He dips his chin in a brief nod. “No problem.”
She assumes that’s the end of the conversation, that he’d do up his belt and be gone from her shitty little apartment, but when she turns around to put the rest of her med kit away, he calls out to her and she turns around.
Bellamy crosses the room in four easy strides, coming to stand in front of her, so close that their toes almost touch.
“Clarke I--” he starts, searching her face before his eyes drop to her neck, to the ring of purple and blue bruises placed there by him like some sort of fucked up necklace and the rest of his sentence fades away.
Slowly, he lifts his hand from his side, giving her adequate time to turn away.
She does not.
His hand trembles as it comes up, just barely touching the bruises on her neck, and she stays still, not daring to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, letting the pads of his fingers gently graze against her skin. A current sparks wherever he touches and Clarke struggles to stay quiet.
There’s just something about it, his fingers tracing the bruises that he himself left on her neck. It’s already dark red, standing stark against her skin, and there’s no doubt in her mind that it’ll get darker in the hours to come. He brushes against her pulse point and she has a sudden urge to have him leave bruises all over her. It sends a heat skittering down her spine.
She’s thought about it before.
Bellamy has nice hands and she’d be lying if she said that she never thought about them. Even in the early days at the Dropship she would think about them in the late hours of the night. His hands gripping her legs and hips and ass. His hands slowly inching up her thigh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Hands grabbing her tits, pulling her hair, hands in almost every single place she could think of.
Except she’s never thought about them there before.
His hands on her neck, squeezing just hard enough that her world starts to get fuzzy at the edges.
Her panties are soaked from just thinking about it.
His hand is gone just as fast as it appears and she lets out a shaky breath.
“It’s okay,” she says after clearing her throat. “Nothing to be sorry about.”
He steps back from her and jams his hands in his pockets. “I’m gonna head out,” he says, nodding towards the door. “Thanks again for everything.”
She spends too long looking at the bruises around her neck the next morning. And the she spends too long in the shower afterwards, crouched on the bathroom floor, her back up against the cold stone wall, one hand finger fucking her cunt and the other wrapped around her throat.
She dreamt about this last night.
Dreamt about Bellamy sneaking back into her quarters and fucking her senseless, his large hand around her neck, pressing down on her windpipe just so until the edges of her mind get fuzzy and there’s that sweet, sweet pain in her chest.
If Clarke’s being honest with herself, she’s been wet since he came to her last night, since he touched the marks he left on her skin. It’s a feat in and of itself that she manages to hold out for so long.
Almost being choked to death shouldn’t turn her on that much and yet.
Her fingers work faster, furiously rubbing against her clit and she squeezes her neck tighter. It’s not the same as his but it does the trick and a few moments later she’s coming with a half strangled shout.
She shakily stands up once she catches her breath and finishes off her shower.
Not even the frigid early morning water of her bath can wash off the disgust she feels.
Things are more real in the morning sun.
The marks on her neck stand out more harshly in the light of day than they did in her quarters and her skin itches with the feel of a thousand eyes watching her. No one is of course, no one on Sanctum particularly cares about the odd sky girl, the one ostracized from her peers, but she feels that way, so in the end Clarke sticks close to the edges, lingering in the shadows as she moves about.
She ducks into the mess hall for breakfast and spots Emori and Raven and the rest of them seated by a table already. They’re all laughing and talking to one another, seemingly unaware of her presence and she feels something twist in her chest. Clarke doesn’t dwell on the feeling though. Instead she grabs her plate and shovels on a spoonful of eggs and greasy bacon to go with her porridge and sits at the end of the bar by herself.
She spent the last six years virtually alone on earth. A little solitude isn't going to kill her.
Halfway through her meal, Bellamy pulls up a chair next to her.
She finishes chewing and swallows, wiping the grease off her face with the back of her hand. “Morning,” she says, suddenly feeling self conscious.
Clarke finds herself unable to look at his face without blushing.
Just yesterday he tried to kill her.
And just this morning she got herself off to the memory of his hands around her neck.
At least Bellamy looks just as awkward as she feels, trying and failing to not stare at the bruises he left behind. This part is easier for her. She can’t see his stab wound, doesn’t have to worry about her eyes falling on it by accident and feeling the wave of nausea and guilt and pulling at the pits of her stomach.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, all impersonal politeness and she wants to stab him again.
“Fine,” she shrugs. “What about you? Are your stitches okay?”
He nods. “Yeah. They’re fine.”
The silence kills her every time.
“Russell said he wanted to talk to us about the rest of our people coming down,” he says, at least trying to make an effort.
“I know, he told me we can discuss that tomorrow.”
“Guess that means we’re free for today.”
“Any plans?” he asks, swirling his bitter coffee around in the cup mindlessly.
She gives a halfway shrug. “Not really. You?”
“Might do some exploring.”
“You should try and stay off that leg. Don’t want to burst your stitches or anything,” she warns him and maybe she’s imagining it but his lips tip up a little bit at the corners.
“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly and she rolls her eyes, feeling a smile threatening to break through.
His eyes drift back to her bruises and she can practically see the moment the cloud pulls over him, eyes dark and stormy.
“Clarke, I really am s--”
“If you say you’re sorry one more time I’m gonna stab you with this fork,” she says easily, and his jaw clicks shut. “Listen to me, it’s fine. I’m okay. Stop beating yourself up about it,” she tells him, reaching out to give his forearm a squeeze.
The muscle in his jaw jumps and he turns his head away from her. “I know it’s just. I hurt you,” he says, letting his head drop in shame.
“Trust me, it wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen to me,” she says wryly.
He snorts. “Because that makes it so much better.”
“Doesn’t even make the top ten,” she teases and he rolls his eyes, biting back a smile.
“God, you’re so bad at this.”
“I’m not gonna break that easy, Bellamy,” she says, serious once more, “You don’t need to worry about being too rough with me.”
She doesn’t miss the way his eyes darken at her words, or when his tongue flicks out to lick his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, voice gruff, and it sends a frisson of want skittering down her spine.
Clarke slips off her chair before she does something stupid like jump him right then and there in the cafeteria. Her knuckles are bone white from how tight she’s gripping her dishes.
“I’ve got some things to take care off, but come see me later about your leg,” she tells him. “I wanna make sure it’s healing properly.”
“Yeah, I’ll try and stop by,” he says, watching as she walks off to dispose of her dishes. “Later Clarke.”
Clarke lied about having things to do. Instead she spends the day in her quarters, reading and relaxing and generally enjoying having a day to herself where she doesn’t have to worry about trying to survive.
She decides to sketch around noon and before she realises, she’s drawn a picture of Bellamy’s hands, broad and long fingered, and she flushes, the room feeling too hot all of a sudden.
When one of the suns starts to set later in the evening, she slips the drawings into the drawer of her bedside table and prepares her things for Bellamy’s arrival. She’s equal parts dreading and anticipating seeing him here again, halfway dressed and kneeling between his legs.
She wants to be between his legs, looking up at him as she palms his dick before taking it in her mouth. Thinks about the way he’d taste, the sounds he’d make. She’ll probably end up putting her hands down her pants because she’s impatient and can’t wait. And when Bellamy finds out, he’ll flash her that wicked, wicked grin and take care of the job himself, one hand on her neck and the other teasing her between legs. He won’t choke her until he’s fucking her, until she begs him for it.
Clarke gets lost in the daydream, lounging on her bed, one hand tracing circles around her nipple and the other gently stroking herself through her pants. It’s not enough to make her come, but it’s enough to help get the edge off, to keep her at bay so she won’t have to stop when he shows up. She can control herself until she knows she’ll be all alone.
The second sun begins to set.
Bellamy never shows.
She finds him at breakfast the next morning, sitting with the rest of space crew. Their conversation quiets as she draws near and she tries not to feel slighted about it. Bellamy’s back stiffens when he notices her coming over.
“Can I talk to you?” she asks.
“I’m in the middle of breakfast, Clarke,” he says, unable to meet her eyes. Bellamy’s never been one to have a good poker face and she can spot the guilt from a mile away.
“It’s okay. I can wait.”
The guilt rolls off of him in waves, and just five minutes later he’s slinking out of the cafeteria, following her. They find a shadowy spot of forest, just behind the building, out of the way of prying eyes and listening ears.
She crosses her arms and watches him, letting him suffer for a few minutes more. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, his injured leg clearly still bothering him but his pride refuses to let him say anything about it.
Finally she says, “You never came by yesterday.”
“I was busy.”
The silence stretches between them. Bellamy slowly drinks her in, starting at her feet and making his way up to her face. He lingers a bit on her neck, searching for the bruises that she hid under the collar of her jacket. They’re still a faded purple, winking at her whenever she catches sight of them in a mirror, making her skin flush.
He looks away from her, the muscle in his jaw jumping.
“I don’t… trust myself to be alone with you,” he grits out, scuffing the ground with his boot. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”
Clarke isn’t sure if she wants to roll her eyes or cry.
“Bellamy,” she sighs, taking a step towards him. “You need to stop blaming yourself.”
“Easier said than done,” he scoffs and she sees the flicker of a self deprecating smile.
“Do you want me to forgive you? Because I already have,” she tells him. “Both of us weren’t in control of our actions and we both hurt each other. And that’s okay because I know you’d never do that for real.” She places her hand on his forearm and gives it a squeeze. “Now can you please stop ignoring me? I mean, it’s gonna make our meeting with Russell harder than it has to be if you can’t even look at me.”
He snorts. “Yeah. Yeah okay.” He looks down at Clarke from beneath his lashes and puts a hand over hers. “We’re good right?”
She squeezes his arm again. “Yeah, we’re good.”
And they really are.
The meeting with Russell goes well, everything according to plan. Afterwards, they grab lunch together before Bellamy leaves to go take care of some things, though not before promising Clarke that he’ll see her later.
Clarke’s still a bit skeptical of the last part but, true to his word, later that evening there’s a knock on her door while she’s reading and she opens it to find him standing on the other side, grinning sheepishly.
“Got anything for the pain, doc?”
“Only took what, a day for you to drop your tough guy act huh.”
She lets him in nonetheless and grabs her med kit from the cupboard before ducking into the bathroom for a brief minute to wash her hands. When she comes back Bellamy is already sitting in the same chair she initially stitched him up in, pants undone.
This time she doesn’t blush as she approaches him and sinks between his legs.
They don’t talk much as she cleans and redresses his wound, although Clarke does offer him a pot of salve that’s supposed to help numb the pain. Bellamy mumbles a few words of thanks and slips it in his pocket while she tapes the bandage down.
Just like earlier, she could feel his eyes scanning her neck for the bruises and just like before she made sure to hide them with the collar of her jacket.
The entire interaction only takes about ten minutes tops but it still feels like a lifetime. Clarke doesn’t breathe easy until she’s standing again, a good foot of space between them both.
“Thanks Clarke,” he says, wiping his palms on his pants as he tugs them back up.
This becomes their routine over the next few days. Bellamy comes to Clarke’s rooms just before sunset and she checks up on his stab wound. They don’t talk much and he never lingers afterwards, just gives her his thanks and is on his way. She tries her best not to think about these interactions, but most nights she ends up back there anyway, thinking about Bellamy and all the things they could do to each other.
She’s never quite able to meet his gaze the next morning, especially when she has to resort to putting her own hand around her neck to come. It’s embarrassing.
He’s finally able to walk without wincing so Clarke isn’t that surprised when the sun sets and he’s not at her door.
It doesn’t sting as much as it did the first time. His leg is getting better, the risk of infection has gone down significantly, he really doesn’t have to see Clarke everyday. Still, it was nice having someone to take care of, to feel like she wasn’t completely useless or universally hated.
By the time it’s fully dark she’s certain he’s not coming so she starts getting ready for bed, taking a shower and changing into her tank top and some soft pants that she stole from the eligius ship.
She’s lounging on the bed with a book, snacking on some jerky, when someone knocks at her door.
She’s certainly not expecting it to be Bellamy on the other side, not this late, but it is and he’s carrying two plates of dinner from the cafeteria. It doesn’t seem like Bellamy was expecting her to be like this either, all wet hair and soft clothes, so obviously and painfully ready to go to bed.
And then he spots the fading bruises on her neck, the ones that she’s successfully hidden for the past couple of days, and a storm cloud rolls over his face.
“Um, hi,” she says, holding the door open for him, “Want to come inside?”
He swallows thickly. “Sure.”
She shuts the door closed behind him when he walks inside, and he places the plates on the small coffee table in the living area.
“I, uh, didn’t realise how late it was getting,” he says, shoving his hands in his pocket and shifting back and forth, clearly uncomfortable. He’s focused on a spot in the wall over her right shoulder, refusing to look at her properly.
“It’s fine, I wasn’t up to much,” she says. “Thanks for bringing me dinner.”
“Figured you’d be hungry.”
“I am, thank you.”
He nods at her again, still fidgeting, and she lets out a sigh, running a hand through the tangles in her hair. She braces her hip against the wall and cocks an eyebrow.
“Alright then, out with it,” she says, bracing herself for another round of self pity and self loathing from him.
“Out with what?”
“Out with your little pity party.”
“I don’t have a pity party.”
“Seems like you do, what with all the brooding you’re doing over there,” she says and he flashes her an annoyed look.
“I’m not brooding.”
“Look at me,” she says and he glances at her from beneath his lashes.
“I’m always looking at you,” he smirks, though there isn’t a single trace of humour in his voice.
“ Look at me, dammit ,” she snaps, and that gets his attention.
Bellamy crosses the room in three quick strides and she suddenly finds herself backed against the wall with him looming in her space.
Eyes locked with his, she picks up his hand and slowly, ever so slowly, she pulls it up to her neck and wraps his fingers around her throat.
She can just barely hear the way his breath catches over the sound of her blood pounding in her ears.
Ever since it happened Clarke has needed to feel her own hand on her neck in order to come. So the feel of Bellamy’s hand there, not even squeezing, just resting lightly against her skin, is enough to make her get wet, her cunt aching for something sweet to fill it.
“Clarke what the hell are you doing?” he growls, his eyes going dark.
There’s no doubt in her mind that he can feel her pulse probably going at a hundred beats per minute, feel how she has to swallow twice before making any attempt to speak.
“I’m showing you that I’m still alive,” she says, and she’s immensely proud that her voice doesn’t waver one bit. “I’m still here. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t kill me. I’m okay.”
“If you’re really okay, then why are the bruises there?” says Bellamy as he absentmindedly traces the edges of one of the bruises. They’re in the shape of his fingerprints and all week she couldn’t stop thinking about being marked by him.
“It was an accident,” she breathes, trying her best not to shiver.
“Mhmm. Not your fault.”
“Not my fault?”
“I know you’d never hurt me like that,” she says, as honest as ever, and his eyes soften.
“I wouldn’t,” he murmurs, still entranced by the marks.
His hand strokes the bruises that linger on her neck. They no longer look like angry purple and blue violets blooming across her skin; instead they’ve faded a bit over the past few days, settling on an ugly mottled yellow-green colour that marks the healing process.
“I can’t stop thinking about these,” he says, thumb stroking the sensitive skin and making her breath hitch. She wonders if he notices just how tight she’s squeezing her legs together.
“If you apologise for them one more time I’m gonna knee you in the balls,” she threatens him, although the effect is lost when her voice comes out breathy.
“You’re probably going to want to do that anyway,” he says wryly, leaning in closer so that his lips are just almost brushing against her skin. “Fuck Clarke,” he sighs. “You have no idea how much I hate myself for doing this to you.”
Her fingers tangle in his hair of their own accord and she finds herself tilting her head back to give him better access to her neck. “So you’ve said,” she replies, gasping a little when she feels his lips ghost over her collarbone.
“I hate myself for hurting you… but I hate myself even more for thinking about this nonstop,” he says, a hand coming up to wrap around her neck and give it a light squeeze.
“I can’t stop thinking about my hand on your neck, thinking about the little sounds that you’d make,” he breathes, pressing featherlight kisses to the column of her throat, so soft that they feel like a whisper. “It’s sick.”
Clarke nearly comes on the spot.
He kisses a bruise, the one directly over her pulse point and she feels a moan building low in her throat.
“Tell me to fuck off,” he says to her, pulling back, a slight note of pleading colouring his tone. “Tell me to leave you the hell alone. Just say the word and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything you want.”
The words don’t register at first; they can barely get through the thick haze of lust that has settled in her brain. It’s only when he moves to pull his hand away that it clicks.
She stops him by grabbing onto his wrist and pulling it back against her neck. She keeps her hand on top of it as she meets his gaze, which is a combination of stunned and hungry.
“I don’t want you to fuck off,” she says, enounciating every syllable of every word.
“What do you want then?” he asks, eyes impossibly dark as they keep track of her every movement.
Clarke lifts her chin, looks him directly in the eye, a challenge. He might be the one pinning her to a wall with his hand around her neck, but she’s never felt more in control. It’s like a match to a fuse, and she feels a sudden swell of confidence bursting in her chest.
“Kiss me,” she orders.
Bellamy’s lips tip up for just a second before he leans in and does just that.
Despite the tension that has been building for the past few days, the electricity that had been crackling between them just minutes ago, the fact that he still has his hand on her neck, their first kiss is rather tame.
His kisses her softly, almost question-like, and it’s fine. His lips are shy as they exchange kisses, and she has to coax out his tongue with her own, tracing the seam of his mouth with hers until he finally opens for her. Bellamy seems to be following her lead, doing what he thinks she wants him to do.
Clarke pulls back and he’s breathing a bit heavy.
“Come on, Bellamy, I know you can do better than that,” she goads him, cocking her head to the side. “What happened to the panty dropper from the Dropship?”
He laughs, low and wicked, and her skin is buzzing in anticipation.
“That what you want, princess?” he asks darkly, the old pet name coming out once again as he noses the curve of her cheekbone. “It’s all up to you babe, I’m just along for the ride.”
“What I want,” she says, baring her teeth at him, “Is for you to fuck me until I scream.”
“Is that right?” he asks, pressing soft kisses to the underside of her jaw. He squeezes her throat a little harder and she whimpers. She can feel his self satisfied smirk against her skin. “Keep talking. What else you want?”
“For you to stop fucking around,” she snaps, though the effect is lost when he nips at her jaw, causing her to squeak.
“I’m having fun,” he knocks back at her.
“Fuck you Bellamy.”
“Oh you will,” he promises, “We’ll get to that later. As for now…”
He finally kisses her again, properly this time, just like she imagined he would. It’s deep and dirty and he sucks on her bottom lip until she finally moans out loud for him. Her back arches, pressing her tits against the hard planes of his chest, and he squeezes her neck again, effectively ruining her panties. His other hand finds her ass, squeezing and kneading at her flesh. Everything about the kiss embodies Bellamy Blake as a person: rough and filthy but gets the job done flawlessly. She could probably stand her and make out with him all day.
“God I thought you’d hate me,” he pants, fumbling with the strap of her tank top. “Thought you’d hate me for hurting you and if you didn’t, then you’d definitely hate me for liking it .” He drops his mouth, kissing across her collarbone before reaching her shoulder and nipping at it, making her squeal. “But you didn’t. You didn’t because you liked it too, didn’t you, Clarke?”
She whimpers when he kisses the tops of her breasts, pushing her tanktop all the way down so it pools at her middle, leaving her exposed.
“Tell me how much you liked it, Clarke,” he says, increasing the pressure around her neck as his free hand plays with a nipple. She’s so keyed up that she feels like she could come from this alone.
“A lot,” she gasps out, “I liked it a lot. I couldn’t-- fuck-- couldn’t stope thinking about it. About this.”
He abandons her tits and makes quick work of knot holding her pants up before rubbing at her through her underwear. He swears when he feels her, hot and dripping and Clarke shifts her hips, trying to grind into the palm of his hand.
“Fuck. Yeah you’ve been thinking about this. You’re so fucking wet babe,” he says, wriggling his hand past the elastic band of her panties and slowly stroking her folds. “All this from thinking about my hand on your neck, baby?”
She lets her eyes flutter shut, tipping her head back against the wall as she just basks in the feeling. It’s only when he tweaks her clit, causing her to squeak does she realise that he’s waiting on an answer.
“Yeah,” she says, cheeks going rosy. “Yeah, it is.”
He lets go of her neck, and she makes a pitiful sound that has him chuckling. He leans in and kisses her again, quick, but still filthy, and flashes a wicked grin her way.
“I’ll be back soon, don’t worry,” he tells her, running a soothing hand down her side, “I’m just gonna need both hands for this.”
Bellamy holds her gaze as he gets to his knees, tugging her pants and underwear down as he goes.
“Bet you taste as sweet as sweet as you look,” he says, pressing a smacking kiss to one hip, and then the other, and then finally kissing her pussy hello.
At this point her arousal is dripping down her thighs, but Bellamy is diligent, licking every inch of her clean. He hooks one of her legs over his shoulders, opening her up wider to him and giving her the leverage that she needs to rock down against his mouth. They both groan with it and Clarke comes to the conclusion that there’s nothing hotter than Bellamy Blake eating pussy with his eyes shut and looking like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
He alternates between fucking her with his tongue and sucking at her clit which she grinds her cunt against his face. It’s all dirty and hot, the scratch of his beard against her over sensitive skin adding just enough pain to keep her grounded that she almost doesn’t miss the heavy weight of his hand against her throat. Almost.
In the end, it’s when he holds her hips steady, fucking up into that one spot that makes her sees stars with his fingers, she comes, his name on her lips as she gasps and shudders around him.
“You like that huh,” he says, standing back up, and Clarke doesn’t reply, just pounces on him, likcing the taste of herself out of his mouth.
“You’re wearing too much clothes,” she mumbles against his lips as she fights to undo his belt buckle. She gets it after a couple tries and pulls it out of the loops with a ‘whoosh’ before getting his pants down.
There’s a pronounced bulge in his boxers and now it’s her turn to drop to her knees, just like she imagined all those times before. She pulls them down and his cock springs free, hard and long and perfect.
“Clarke,” he warns her, voice tight as she begins to stroke him. He looks impossibly big in her hands and cunt flutters around nothing, ready to go again despite having come just a few minutes ago.
“I’m just having a little fun,” she smiles up at him before flicking her tongue out at the blushing tip.
He’s too big for her to take him all the way in her mouth, but she tries, sucking on his length while working the rest of him with her hands. Bellamy exhales noisily above her, one of his hands tangling in her hair as he sets the pace. He’s still in control, even now, and makes it known by pulling on her hair whenever she goes too fast or too slow.
It’s obvious he’s doing this for her benefit, because she wanted to suck his cock. Clarke knows if it was up to him, he’d have her on her back by now, pounding into her. Still, he lets her entertain herself and she isn’t going to waste a moment, flicking her tongue along the underside of his shaft, sucking at the head, teasing the tip. She does all of these things and catalogues his responses for future reference.
“You look so pretty like that,” he murmurs, eyes hooded as he watches her, “My cock in your mouth. I wonder how pretty you’ll look with it in the pretty pussy of yours?”
Clarke groans around his length and that’s all he needs before he pulls her off and is kissing her again.
One day she’ll get him to fuck her mouth. She already knows what it’s like to choke with his hands around her neck. Now she wants to feel what it’s like to choke on his dick.
They stumble into her bedroom and she falls back against the bed. They have to stop touching each other to get their clothes off proper and Clarke laughs at him when he gets his pants stuck because he forgot to take off his shoes.
“I’m not gonna get this off any faster if you keep doing that,” he warns her as she kisses his neck, gently sucking on his pulse point. She just smiles serenely at him before sinking her teeth into his skin.
Bellamy growls, finally managing to kick off his shoes and pants and flips them around, throwing her roughly against the sheets as he looms over her.
“What should I do to you?” he muses, jerking his cock lazily as he surveys her naked body. “Should I fuck you just like this?” he asks, pushing her knees apart and letting his hand reclaim its spot around her neck. His cock drags against her wet folds and she moans, bucking up into him.
“I’d be able to see just how much you like my hand around your neck,” he says as he squeezes tighter, just until it’s a little hard to breathe and he grins at her, that beautiful, boyish grin.
“Or should I fuck you like this,” he says, rolling her over on her stomach and a zing goes through her. She’s on her hands and knees pushing back against him before he can even ask, and he chuckles darkly.
“Guess we’re doing it like this, huh babe?” he says as he slicks his cock with her arousal. The tip bumps against her clit and she jerks, pressing back against him with a mewl. “Such a good girl.”
“Enough teasing and just fuck me already,” she pants, moaning when he shallowly slips in, teasing her entrance.
“Ask nicely,” he snarks, roughly grabbing at her neck. It sends a new wave of wetness flowing through her and he smirks at the effect he has on her body. “I can keep doing this all day.”
“ Bellamy .”
He circles her clit with his forefinger and she whimpers. “Yeah babe.”
Her cheeks burn bright red as she says, “Fuck me. Please fuck me. I need your cock.”
He laughs again, pressing a kiss to the back of her head. “That’s all you had to say, baby,” he breathes into her hair before pushing into her with one quick thrust.
Clarke moans out loud at the feel of being filled for the first time in years. Bellamy is big, stretching her wide open. It hurts a bit at first, but it’s a good hurt, a good stretch, and when he starts moving, the pain is quickly replaced by pleasure. Pleasure so intense that it has her grasping at the sheets.
He doesn’t hold back, snapping his hips against her again and again, and she arches her back, throwing her head back in hopes that he gets the message.
The hand that was just resting on the back of her neck curls around her, grasping at the front. It feels ten times better than her small one, especially when he finally applies pressure, not quite choking her as yet, but getting there.
“God, you really fucking like this huh,” he says, groaning when he walls flutter arouond him. “I can feel your pussy clench every time I tighten my grip.”
It’s nothing that she didn’t already know, but somehow the way Bellamy says it has her blushing. “As if you don’t like it too,” she shoots back at him, “I know you love the sight of your hand covering my entire throat.”
“It wasn’t a secret, babe,” he says, sounding delighted that even now, when he has her on all fours, hand around her neck as he fucks her, she’s still capable of giving as good as she gets.
Conversation peters off the closer they get to climaxing. Bellamy’s grip tightens, and she finally feels it, the sweet pressure building in her chest, the dizziness quickly followed by the edges of her vision going dark.
In the background she can hear Bellamy coaxing her through it, telling her how sweet her pussy feels around his cock as he redoubles his efforts to bring her to the edge. His thrusts get faster and shallower and the hand that was bracing him on her hip moves to rub tight circles around her clit. She can barely recognise the sounds she’s making, a cross between his name and ‘oh god yes’s and moans.
He squeezes her neck even tighter, and finally, that’s what snaps the rubber band holding her in place, sending her hurtling towards her orgasm.
It overwhelms her, making her feel like she’s floating and drowning all at once. She feels the ways she clenches down on his dick, the way his hips stutter and he groans low in his throat before he thrusts into her once, then twice before he comes, sending a new wave of pleasure through her. Clarke isn’t sure if she comes a second time or if it was just an extension of the first one.
They both lie there, Bellamy halfway slumped on top her while Clarke lies on the bed, her face half hidden by the pillows, catching their breath.
“You doing okay?” he asks a few minutes later when they can finally speak. He’s removed his hand from around her neck and uses it to brush the hair away from her face when she turns around to face him. The room smells like sex and she can feel his come dripping out of her, ruining the sheets. Still, she smiles and stretches out, curling toes against his leg.
“Never better,” she croaks, her throat a bit sore from his grip.
Bellamy grins, leaning over to kiss her, quick and sweet in a way that leaves her a little bit shocked.
“Live up to your expectations?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows and she groans hiding her face against his bicep.
“I will punch you in the dick.”
“Just a few minutes ago you were screaming about how much you loved my dick,” he teases her and she bites his arm.
“Ow!” he says, a startled burst of laughter erupting from his chest as though he couldn’t quite believe she just did that. “You’re such a fucking brat, Griffin.”
“Only for you, Blake,” she grins and he presses a kiss to the crown of her head.
Bellamy helps her clean up before they take a shower. She washes his back and he helps her with her hair, and they both end up blowing soap bubbles in each other’s faces.
The food that he brought with him has long gone cold, but they still curl up on her now sheetless bed with her favourite book from the meagre collection in her room. Bellamy reads bits and pieces out loud while they eat and she finds herself paying more attention to him than what he’s saying, a fact which he notices and earns her a kiss or two.
They don’t talk about what just happened. They don’t talk about feelings or relationships or anything of the sort. But, judging from the way he lets her lay her head in his lap while he plays with her hair and continues to read, they don’t have much to talk about anyway.
They’re both on the same page, even without saying anything.
They’re both good.