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time cast a spell on you but you won't forget me

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Clarke comes back to Miss Pramheda’s Orphanage for Extraordinary Girls on Halloween. The last time Bellamy spoke to her -- it wasn’t pretty. 


Miss Pramheda’s Orphanage for Extraordinary Girls once flourished, a home to a hundred girls with mysterious gifts. A hundred girls and Bellamy. 


When Octavia -- in a fit of white hot anger about Bellamy trying to control her life when she couldn’t even control the burning rage she continuously felt inside -- accidentally set their house on fire, killing their mother and leaving them with nothing but the clothes on their back, he was desperate. 


He was supposed to be going off to a nearby college soon -- after five years of deferring after his mother got sick -- to make sure that in due time he could get a good enough job to get Octavia the life she deserved, one of protection and no more hiding. 


All his life, his mother had told him Octavia’s gifts were dangerous, that if other people found out, they’d all be prosecuted, hunted, killed . He couldn’t trust anyone. He had nowhere left to turn but to the very people his mother always warned him about, beg them to take her in. He didn’t care what happened to him, he just needed Octavia to be safe. 


The Headmistress, Indra, took pity on him, allowed him to live with them and be close to his sister in exchange for him doing a number of odd-jobs around the building and providing basic human needs for the girls, like food to keep them strong and enough warm water for each of them to take their elaborate twenty minute showers. 


Indra was their Supreme for over seventy years, although she still looked like she was in her early forties thanks to her powers that allowed her to drain the life of her enemies to fuel her own. She used to be part of a different coven, a coven who took their powers from darkness, not light. 


A war between the two largest known covens in the area had been bubbling under the surface for over a century. As long as they had a common enemy -- humans, like him, but especially the ones hunting their kind, not like him -- they had no reason to attack each other. When everything went to shit, she went down first. It was the beginning of the end or the world.


At least that’s what it felt like for Bellamy. The world he once knew was gone. A world where all he lived for was trying to get his sister through the day, one day at a time. Over the months, he’d started to feel a same kind of responsibility for all the other girls here. A need to keep them safe, protected, even if all he had to give was his bare hands and a mouth too smart for his own good.

Indra’s daughter Gaia took over for a while. Born with the gift of Divination, she was a little bit peculiar, creeping Bellamy out from time to time. She would get this glassy look on her face as she’d touch him, spout some bullshit about having seen ‘his fight’, that one day he would be allowed to join them in the ‘City of Light’. He never bothered to asked what she meant by any of it. Bellamy’s always known his faith, always known all his end would include was darkness.


That was all before Clarke left. Before Josephine Lightbourne decided she was a better fit to be the Supreme, and Octavia decided to runaway with her warlock boyfriend. 


Bellamy decided to stay, take care of remaining girls who had nowhere else to go. They were all orphans after all, like him. It was hard, on his own. Especially considering the coven had no real leadership now. He had no powers. He was no one. Just somebody willing to take care of these girls. On his worst days, he’d remind himself that’s more than they’ve ever had before. 


Nowadays, the place is a wasteland. The hallways empty, rooms untouched, furniture collecting dust. A ghost of what it used to be. 


Nowadays, there’s less than two dozen girls around. Most of them dead, gone in hiding, or worse. 


The last person he expected to show back up at their door was Clarke. 


Especially not with Charles Pike -- CEO of Exodus, a farming company that serves as a front for an ancient order of witch hunters -- sitting right there, in his living room, waiting for them to strike a deal. An alliance. For Pike to keep his girls safe, and for Bellamy to help take another coven down in return, a coven standing much stronger than his own.


When Indra died, the alliance -- between their coven and that of the Coven of Darkness, led by their supreme Lexa -- that she had fought for for over seventy years, broke. And it left them with nothing but the promise of an inevitable attack.


One day, Mel, one of their girls, under the influence of one of Josephine’s ‘ prank spells ’ had babbled to her crush about her powers. The boy, Sterling, thought it was funny, filmed her using her gift of transmutation, transporting from the top of one of the half-pipes to a funbox in the middle of the skatepark. 


Indra got wind of the video early on in the process, got it taken down before it spread too much. Bellamy spent a few nights undercover on different ‘Supernatural’ forums, insisting the video was edited, enough to plant a seed of doubt in the mind’s of the people who’d already seen it, enough to make the ones who said it was real look like crazy conspiracy theorists. Gaia made sure to take away the memories of the boy Mel had confessed her love to. Josephine was reprimanded and banned to the basement for a few days of mind control torture by the Headmistress’ daughter, not that that ever did much good. She never learned.


They thought that was the end of it. 


Until one day their girls started disappearing one by one. Plucked off the street, on their way to school or out with friends. 


Ten girls were missing already when Clarke got taken.


Clarke -- Clarke came into the Orphanage the daughter of a witch and a warlock, and he had hated her on principle. She never had to hide. She was a legend in streets she roamed because of her heritage, and because of her parents’ powerful friends and their combined protection she was able to live a normal life. Safe, protected from the constant fear of being found out. 


Until her first boyfriend died in her bed when her parents were out of town for their anniversary -- an undiscovered heart condition they said. And a few months later she went to a Homecoming party, got drunk and her best friend died too. The cause of death? Someone spiked his drink with a bad batch of drugs. 


Her father wanted to come clean to the Witch Council, figured they should know about their daughter inheriting his mother’s Wanheda curse. That everyone Clarke would sleep with, would hemorrhage and die. 


Her mother didn’t want to tell anyone, afraid of what the brand mark of a curse like that would do to her daughter’s life, so she had her father killed by her secret lover. They tried to cover it up by making it seem like it was a coincidental attack by a witch hunter, until Clarke found out about the affair. In the spur of the moment, out of hateful spite, she reported her to the council. The witch council sentenced Abigail Griffin to burn at the stake for treason, and sentenced Marcus Kane to much worse. 


Then Clarke -- a fresh orphan -- came to them. Just a few days after him and Octavia were first taken in by Indra.


They always fought about everything. He thought she was a stuck-up, know-it-all who thought she was too good to attend the extracurricular witchcraft lessons like the other girls who always had to have the last self-righteous word. She thought he was an arrogant, overprotective asshole trying to overcompensate for the fact he was nothing more than a human. In hindsight, she was probably right. He took out a lot of issues on her, an easy target because she gave it right back to him.


Over time, it became clear they had more in common than he’d initially assumed. One day, Charlotte’s cat was hit by a reckless driver and he had Octavia take her inside before she could see. He knelt down next to the feline, stroking it’s head as it choked on it’s own blood, trying to give it words of comfort he know would be no use.


Bellamy knew the merciful thing to do would be to take the knife he used to pluck the more stubborn apples from the trees in their front yard and end it’s fight. Yet, his hand hovered in the air beside the cat’s chest, metal of the blade cold against his skin of his palm, completely frozen. 


He felt a hand on his back, someone kneeling down beside him and taking the knife from his trembling fingers. He blinked through the tears and up at the person beside him to see it was Clarke. 


His voice was rough. “Can’t you bring it back alive?”


“It always comes with a cost,” she’d told him, solemnly, stroking the cat’s dark fur as she slid the blade into it’s throat in one, effective move. She’d smiled at the animal, soft and comforting, like it’d understand such a thing. “It’s better off dead, trust me.”


(Later, he learned she’d once desperately tried to bring back her friend Wells after he died because of her. He ended up killing his own family. To fill the void he felt inside, consumed by a force of darkness he’d encountered while he’d been gone. He begged Clarke to take his life.)


They didn’t become best friends, not really, but it got better. There was a newfound respect between the two of them. They’d sit out on the roof sometimes, legs dangling off the ledge as they shared a blanket. He let her have a few sips of moonshine every now and then as he’d tell her stories about the many close calls he had with his sister over the years. 


It was funny, trying to hide a human fireball with anger issues from the common world, but only retrospectively. He’d make all of them a little bit more dramatic than they were, a little bit more like the ancient legends his mother used to read to him, anything to get that constant worried frown to disappear from in between her brows, anything to hear her laugh. To this day the most magical sound he’s ever heard.  


In turn she’d tell him about her life, showing him the pictures she’d absentmindedly draw on the sketchbook in her lap with charcoal while they talked. Her friend, Wells, who she thought deserved to be loved as much as he loved her. Her first boyfriend, Finn, and his other girlfriend she didn’t find out about until after he died. Even the girl nobody knew about, Niylah, the girl who didn’t believe in curses and how at night Clarke still sees the exact way her father cried at her funeral. Clarke was never afraid. Never afraid to stand up against Indra, or to go face to face with Josephine, or to call his stories dramatic.  


Then she got taken. He wanted to chase her, more than anything, break her out of there, get her safe back at home. He felt like he was going crazy. One of the clairvoyant girls touched Clarke’s father’s watch and found out which building the taken girls were held in, Mt. Weather Inc. A genetic research lab located on private terrain not too far from the city centre.


Before, all Emori could see when she touched any of the girls’ belongings was darkness. At least it meant Clarke was still alive, even if it didn’t leave much room for hope about her faith. Before he could even come up with a plan Octavia would call him stupid for even trying, she escaped.  


Someone found that video of Mel , she told them, hissing as Jade cleaned a cut on her forehead, a scientific experiment. A guy name Emerson who worked at the company as a scientist was the one who took her, leading the experiment, trying to draw the magic from the girls and put it into humans. Nine girls dead already in failed trial attempts, they eventually successfully took Harper’s powers from her, rendering her powerless and transferring them into his own body. Clarke’s eyes locked on his from across the room, a silent understanding passing between the two of them as she told everyone, I don’t know if she’s still alive, I didn’t see her awake the whole time I was there . No matter what, Emerson was going to pay for what he did.


Indra took him out easily enough, more practiced and more powerful than a warlock with newly acquired abilities that usually took years to master. Bellamy one amongst some of the older girls, standing in one of the dark corners of the living room with his arms crossed over his chest, candles flickering a pattern of light over their skin as they took pleasure in watching the life drain out of Emerson and into their Supreme’s body. Octavia was near the front, her arm around Harper to help her stand up straight, her entire body black and blue with bruises. A fitting punishment.


Before they realized he wasn’t working alone, it was too late. An army of scientists showed up at the Orphanage with silver bullets and protective shields, ready to take what they thought belonged to them. 


Before she died, one of the girls who was taken was tortured in such a way she confessed and told them how to break the protection spell around the building, told them exactly what their weaknesses were, enough to wound them, render them powerless, but not kill them, not take away their shot at taking their powers.


Indra was taken out by a plethora of silver bullets laced with a herb designed to weaken witches -- Natblida -- after already being depleted by the virus Harper brought back along with her a few days earlier. 


He hid some girls in the garden shed with his knocked-unconscious sister, told Mel to start teleporting them one by one until she could no longer take it, then found Clarke in their front yard, frozen, watching flashes of light go off in the windows of their home with every gun shot. Taking girl after girl. Their people, her sisters. 


“I don’t have a choice,” Clarke told him, voice shaking as rain trickled down her hair, flattening it. He knew she had worked a long time on trying to convince herself she wasn’t a murderer. That her curse did not make her destined for bloodshed. Yet here they were. Their only option to take them all out. “Indra’s gone.”


“I know,” Bellamy said, eyes fixated on her profile. There’d never been a question in his mind she was anything less than good . He also knew she was the only one who could do this. Beside being the first to recover from the virus, she was also one of their most powerful and practiced witches. A beat passes before he presses, “Who you are and who you need to be to survive are two very different things.”


His fingers brushed the skin of her hand, then slipped in the cracks between her fingers. The contact seemed to snap her out of whatever train of thought she was in. She finally turned to look at him, blue eyes insistent on his, squeezing his hand. “Together?”


“Together,” he affirmed, another distant gunshot echoing through the air, followed by a painful shriek, water seeping into his clothes. They wouldn’t stop. So neither should they. No matter what. 


He looked at the paper in her other hand as she held it out in front of them, the charcoal words stained by the rain, the ripped sheet trembling in the air. Bellamy said the spell along with her, screams of the girls being hurt and taken ripping through his body in a same matter as he felt Clarke’s power surge through him, a bright light blooming from the tips of his fingers to the middle of his chest. 


Her hand in his, blood trickling down her nose as she forced herself to keep standing up right, to keep her eyes open. Eventually she had to lean onto him, no longer being able to tell the tears from the blood or the rain. Each life lost taking something from her. He never left her side.


It took him six days to bury all the bodies of the girls they lost despite their best efforts, to burn all the bodies of the Mountain Men they took down in their garden. Nobody could ever find out. If they found out, the girls would get taken away, experimented on not much different from the faith they’d just barely escaped.


It’s why she left. All the bodies, all the lives -- they did it together, but they both knew it were her words that held the power. It took something from her. And he had no clue how to fix it. 


The war got bad then, the Coven of Darkness blaming them for the recent exposure of witchcraft, and witchhunter forces duplicating by the day knowing they all stood weaker without an alliance, closer to extinction than they’d ever been. 


Through the grapevine, he found out Clarke joined the Coven of Darkness, right by Lexa’s side, trying to forge a new alliance. Maybe it was selfish, but he’d rather have her back without an alliance. 


Everything went to shit.


It was hard to admit, but somehow over the past few months, he got attached. He couldn’t do this without her. He was nothing, a nobody. He needed her. 


He was willing to beg. He was desperate, no way of contacting her. He left enough meals in the freezer for the girls to warm up in his few days absence, and left them behind to get Clarke back.


Raven told him how to get passed the protective spell put onto the house without much hassle, tossed him a bag of salt to create a protective sphere if necessary. Of course he got caught, not expecting there to be another person in Clarke’s room. He was stupid. Knocked back into the door as soon as he passed the threshold of her chambers. 


A woman appeared in front of him, an invincible force holding him back and holding a knife to his throat. She had long wavy brown hair falling down her shoulders, piercing green eyes lined with dark coal. No real emotion appeared on her face, not fear, or surprise, or even annoyance. He recognized her from the drawn pictures in Indra’s old spell books as Lexa, this time only wrapped in a sheet.


“Human,” she’d sneered, disgusted, the force against his skin hard enough to make blood trickle down the blade, his throat. Her voice was soft, but laced with enough threat to make him realize she was serious. “I could feel your aura from a mile away. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you for trespassing on my property?”


“No, please,” Clarke pleaded, scrambling up from the bed quickly to appear beside Lexa. Her hair was longer, messier than the last time he’d seen her. Her eyes glazed over as her fingers dug into the other woman’s bicep, hard enough to leave marks. “Please. Don’t kill him. I’ll do anything, I’ll -- I’ll --”


“Hush,” Lexa told her coldly, stepping back from him as her eyes flicked between the two of them. The knife clattered to the floor. Clarke’s hand dropped back down. “Begging isn’t an attractive quality, not even on you.”


If Clarke was hurt by the statement, she didn’t show it. 


“What are you doing here?” Clarke hissed, folding her arms over her chest. Thankfully she was at least wearing a satin nightgown. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is to sneak in here?”


His brain short-circuited, brow furrowing together as he stood straighter. How does she not know? Is it really that far fetched of an idea that they need her back home? “I came to get you.”


“I --” She started, glancing over at Lexa as her shoulders deflated just a little. The anger that took over in the heat of the surprise fading with the realisation he is here for her, and only her. Not to start some sort of pissing contest with Lexa.


The other woman cut in when she took too long to finish her sentence, expression slightly less stoic than before, now laced with something a lot like irritation, as the knife rose in the air for her to grab with a flick of her wrist. “You are not a prisoner, Clarke.” She moves back over to the bed, dropping the sheet to pull her own nightgown over her head, unbothered by the fact Bellamy is standing right there. He averts his gaze, keeps it trained on Clarke’s collarbone. “You never have been. If you wish to leave, you are free to do so.”


The blonde glared at her over her shoulder in response, to which Lexa only tightened her jaw. Something she didn’t expect maybe. “I’ll give you a minute.” 


The supreme acted as if Bellamy wasn’t even there, which would’ve irked him more did he not feel like he was standing in front of a stranger -- energy between them shifting in something unfamiliar, his stomach dropping. 


His eyes lingered on the bed behind Clarke, heart pounding loudly in his throat for no reason as Lexa disappeared into the bathroom. He had so many questions, many too difficult to ask, so he started with the easiest one. “I… I thought… How did you…?”


“It’s complicated,” Clarke answered, tongue darting out to wet her lips. She looked almost apologetic, and for what he still doesn’t know. “Lexa died a few years ago, but her girlfriend sacrificed her life to bring her back. Apparently having died before makes her immune to my curse.”


He nods, curt, tearing his eyes of the bed. Thinking of anyone touching Clarke like that -- a lot of repressed feelings started to bubble to the surface, feelings he had no time for, not now. “Grab your stuff and we can leave.”


She didn’t move, fingers digging harder into her forearms, nails turning a pale white, still crossed over her chest. Bellamy met her gaze, watched her swallow tightly. Suddenly it dawned on him. She wasn’t coming.


“I have to stay here,” Clarke said, gently but firm, leaving no room for argument as she tipped her chin up just slightly. “After what happened the last time -- I have to learn how to protect us against forces of evil.” Like the Mountain Men. The Witchhunters. 


“You don’t understand,” he said, tried to explain how Gaia took over as interim-Supreme after Indra died, but Josephine thought she was a better fit. She used her powers on three of their girls, pinned them against the wall with a spear aimed at their chests. She made Gaia do a descensum spell, which allowed her to project into the netherworld of the afterlife, taking form as her worst nightmare. “She never returned, Clarke. Her body in one of our spare chambers, withering away. She’s gone, lost to the darkness.” He shook his head, eyes pleading with hers. “Josie left, and there’s no one else, just me, and I can’t --”


“Bellamy,” Clarke cut him off, and for the first time in months he couldn’t read her expression. He couldn’t make out what she was thinking. She had closed herself off. It hit him like a slap in the face. Her mouth opened, then closed. “I can’t .”


His face hardened, his gaze sharpened. “She is not your friend, Clarke. Given the choice, she will always put her people first. You should come home to yours.”


“I’m sorry,” is all she said, even though it meant nothing. He was alone. All this time he thought she couldn’t come home. That she wasn’t ready for whatever reason. That maybe she was even held against her will. Instead he risks his life, that of the girls, all to come there and find out she could. She could leave. She just didn’t want to. He slammed the door on his way out. 


He got why she needed to leave. He really did. He just refused to understand why she couldn’t come back. 


He came back to find the Orphanage burning from an explosion, a few of the girls out in the front yard with their hands linked together trying to do a stiricidium spell to put it out. He falls to his knees, holds Fox as she coughs, tears rolling down from the corners of her eyes. Her voice creaked, her chest heaving heavily trying to get air inside of her burnt lungs, her eyes fixated on something in the sky. “We tried -- we tried to get everyone out.”


“I know,” he tells her, holds her close until she stops crying, rocks her until her breaths stop wheezing softly. “It’s okay. You did good, Fox. So good.” Until Monroe puts her hand on top of his shoulder, and Harper offers him a hand, pulling him up to his feet. 


They look exhausted, cuts everywhere, clothes ripped, skin tainted black from the ash, but the fire having dwindled to low smolder. Despite everything, he’s proud of them for being strong enough to stop it. 


Octavia meets his eye, full of contempt, Emori hanging onto her shoulder. His hand darts up to wipe at the wetness beneath his eyes quickly. Her voice shakes with anger. “It was that Coven of Misfits. I saw her. Echo. She did this.”


The Coven of Ice. Azgeda. Former allies of Lexa. Now that Clarke made sure they’re part of whatever new alliance she has cooked up, her enemies are theirs as well. They had to find that out the hard way. 


Indra left them some money. Not a lot, but enough for him to try and restore what’s left of the Orphanage so the girls have somewhere to live. It takes him a few weeks and some help from the girls, but eventually the have roof that doesn’t leak and walls that keep in heat, and they can figure the rest out while they go. 


Each night, he surges awake in the darkness, and he can’t make the screams stop. The screams of the girls he couldn’t help. He knows they’re not really there, that they’re just memories, but it hurts just the same.  


When Octavia offers to take them away, they have a fight. And they never stop fighting. The threat of another attack always looms above their heads, waiting to happen. The next day, she leaves. “I can’t choose to live in fear, not again,” she tells him. Not like she did before they came here, she means. “I don’t belong here, locked up. I never have.”


He spends weeks looking for a woman named Luna, knowing she is their best shot at protection from both the witch hunters out for blood and Lexa, who he knows they can’t really trust -- not even with Clarke at her side. Once rejecting the position of Supreme of the Coven Darkness, now completely off the grid. Luna’s powerful, maybe even more so than the currently reigning Supreme, blessed with the gift of Resurgence, even that of her own. Because she can’t die, she knows people could use her gift for evil. It’s why she disappeared.


So he spends his days looking for her, nights trying to drink enough to numb his brain into a sleepless slumber. Trying to be there for the few girls who are still with him. They’re all so defeated, lost. Nothing he says can make it better. All he really has left is anger. 


And now there is Clarke. She’s back. 


He closes the door in her face, turns to Harper, leaning against the wall beside him, foot pressed back against it, arms crossed. She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. 


Bellamy clenches his jaw, scrubs a hand over his face. “Can you keep him busy? Just for a little while?”


The blonde purses her lips, long braid falling down her shoulder. There’s a bandaid on her forehead, from when she forced Delilah to use a Levitation spell on her because she missed ‘ hovering ’. He loves all these girls, all in their own special way. They’re his family, his people. He would forgive them for anything. Even Josephine, probably. Clarke -- Clarke is no different. “You do remember she left us, don’t you?”


His face remains blank, even if blood rushes to his ears with a dangerous speed, enough to make him lightheaded. He ignores her previous statement, repeating himself, “Can you?”


“You expect me to do what?” Harper kicks off the wall, glaring at Bellamy. Lowly, she hisses with her eyebrows pinched together in disgust, “Have tea time with that fascist ass? Break cookies together and bond over our shared hobby that is being human?”


Bellamy presses his mouth together in a firm line, one corner turned up slightly in amusement, cocking an eyebrow. He’s not much of a leader to these girls, but they still listen to him, most of the time.

Harper rolls her eyes, shoving him for good measure as she disappears back into the direction of their living room, her sing-songy voice echoing through the hallway, “Who’s in the magical mood for some anti-witchcraft tea?”


He turns back to the door, takes in a deep breath and opens it. Clarke stares up at him with pleading eyes. It feels wrong, almost. The Old Clarke, his Clarke -- she would’ve called him an asshole for slamming the door in her face like that. Would’ve quipped something warm welcome .


Bellamy nudges his head for Clarke to follow him up the stairs, taking a left and then a right before coming to stop in front of a huge painting of their old Supreme. Each step he takes feels heavy, like his shoes are weighed down by lead. Indra stares down at him like he’s a disappointment, like always. He wastes no time pressing a button on the underside of the golden frame, making her disappear. 


Clarke looks at him funnily, he can see it in the corner of his eye. Before she left ‘ ascende superius ’ would be the magic phrase to make the painting in the wall dissipate into a doorway, one of many secret locations hidden in the house. Like Indra’s old office (because she wanted to work in peace), the rare herb room (because girls lost years off their lives and digits before), and his favorite one -- the old library, carrying ancient books full of history and legends and spells. He could spend hours at a time in that room, lost in the words.


They were also places the girls would use to play hide and seek when they got bored being cooked up in the building when they had breaks from school. Places that he once stumbled upon Monroe and Maya making out. Places Octavia would lock him and Clarke into after a particularly rough fight, tell them to sort out their bullshit. Places he could be a alone for a while, after spending all his awake hours surrounded by teenage girls who never learned how to shut up leaving him in desperate need for a quiet moment -- just one, silent moment.


After the explosion, the fire, he had to rebuild most of the rooms and he didn’t have any magic to use, not wanting to put too much of a strain on any of the girls. Just the eleventh grade woodshop class he took in high school and his fair share of Google. 


Now they’re just places of convenience. He can’t risk Pike or one of his henchmen overhearing them, risk them seeing Clarke. They’d kill them all if they did. She’s not only a traitor in their eyes, she’s their worst enemy. He takes her by the arm, shoves her inside. 


“You did a good job here, Bellamy,” she speaks after a painfully quiet moment passes between them, observing the room they’re in. Too much has changed, too much hasn’t. There’s an overly cheerful tone to her voice he sees right through. “The place looks good. I’m happy you were able to save most of the books, I know they --”


He tries hard to keep his face schooled into a blank expression. Despite everything that’s happened, every feeling swirling around inside of his chest, there’s still an overwhelming amount of relief at the sight of her face that dominates everything else. She’s alive, and she’s okay. “What are you doing here, Clarke?”


She stammers wordlessly, for just a second. Her eyes linger on the stack of books on the desk off to the side. This is the same room she found him in after Octavia got mad he searched out her warlock boyfriend Lincoln and almost burned his arm off in the process. The room Clarke used her powers on him to heal the burns and wipe away his tears. The same room she listened to him talk about his sister, about how she was right about him.


“I’m nobody, Clarke,” he’d confessed darkly, head leaning back against the desk as a stray tear dwindled down his cheek. “My mom she tried so hard to keep Octavia safe. She died because of me. I’m so afraid all the time of something happening to Octavia too. I want to protect her but I can’t. She’s right. I don’t have any powers --”


Clarke cut him off by kissing him on the cheek, face way too close to his as she’d whispered, “You’re the most magical of us all.” She’d squeezed his hand laying in her lap, leaning her temple against his shoulder. “She’ll come around and see how special you are.”


He doubts she remembers though. She was all too happy to forget. 


“We need to talk,” Clarke decides on finally, eyes back on his, lips pressed together in a thin line. 


“Oh, you’ve decided that?” A cold, dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, a mirthless smirk accompanying it. “The mighty Wanheda.” Hurt flashes across her eyes. He’s never onced used her powers against her. She once confessed to him that she was afraid of loving anyone, afraid that her love would get them killed. He held her for a few long moments, promised that everyone she loved would be better because of it. “Who chose another Coven over her own, who turned her back on us. Now you want to talk.”


Clarke’s eyes flicker down to floor for just a second, then she crosses the distance between the two of them in a few steps. “I came here to tell you that Azgeda has paid a price. Justice has been served for the attack on this orphanage. I came here to tell you it’s over.”


He crosses his arms over his chest, protective, defensive. Every word she says just make him angrier. What is over? The lives of the girls that burned to death in this very building? She wasn’t here, how would she know? She doesn’t wake up at night, hearing their screams. The scent of metal and smoke stuck in his nose as Fox’s face flashes across his eyes. Thinking about how he should’ve been there to save them. They depended on him, trusted him. They were just kids. “There it is again,” he grins, but there’s not a trace of humour to be found on his face. “Why do you get to decide it’s over?”


She leaves, because she wants to. She lets them all believe she might as well be dead, because she wants to. Comes marching back, because she wants to. Wants it to be the same as before, like nothing changed. 


Everything did. This place is different. He is different. All haunted by ghosts.


“We did our part,” Clarke defends herself, frustration coating her tone. Her hair is so long now, part of it braided, stained a pretty pink. There’s dark eyeliner around her eyes, resembling that of her girlfriend’s coven. 


He narrows his eyes, tilting his head back slightly in surprise at her words. “ We ?”


“Lexa and I,” she cries out, like she doesn’t get how he doesn’t get it. They used to be on the same page a lot, after they got better at not tearing each other down. Almost always, actually. Another thing that’s ruined. “Azgeda… Their Supreme, Nia -- she’s dead. The problem is solved and now you want to make a deal with the man who wants to see us all exterminated.”


Is she seriously judging him for something he had to do while she was gone? He all but begged her to come back and she just stood there. He scoffs, taking another step towards her, almost threatening. There’s a cruel tone to his voice, he hears it as if he’s not in his own body. “Why are you here, Clarke?”


She swallows visibly, her fingers flexing at her sides before they curl into angry fists. “We need to denounce the alliance with Pike or Lexa will wipe us all out.”


His nostrils flare, his jaw setting. “Let her try.”


Clarke tilts her head slightly, eyes softening with disbelief. “Please tell me that going to war is not what you want.”


His eyes flick down to the ground, pressing his lips together in a firm line. Has she not been paying attention? More than three-quarters of their coven has been wiped out. Half of them after she left. She thinks this is peace? Is she just too blinded by the promises Lexa made her? He hardly recognizes her. The girl who always used her head to make her decisions, aggravatingly so, to the point where she’d ignore her own feelings and put herself aside in favor of what was good


Clarke catches his gaze as he looks back up at her, shaking her head slightly like she already knows what he is going to say.


“If you haven’t noticed, Clarke, We’ve been at war,” he spits back, forcing himself to keep his voice steady as his eyes darken. “You just weren’t here to see it. At least Pike understands that.”


While looking for Luna, he found a trail of death witches instead. Witches outside of covens are vulnerable, easy prey. The trail led him to Charles Pike. He was willing to make a deal. The protection of Bellamy’s Coven in return for taking down Lexa and her Coven. To him that sounded a hell of a lot better than having Pike take them out first, and then Lexa. 


To prove his loyalty, he took down a pack of witches from Lexa’s coven. Getting the gun off Craigslist and ordering the silver bullets online. Raven laced them with a lethal dose of Natblida. Five witches. Anya. Sienna. Willa. Ankara. Guara. He ambushed them in the parking lot after they had dinner together. They didn’t stand a chance. He threw up in his car after. He scrubbed at his skin for hours under the shower, trying to get the blood that wasn’t there of his skin, until it was red and raw and hurt at every small brush of his fingers.


“Pike is the problem,” she snaps, angrily, her brow furrowing together with incredulity. Her voice shakes just slightly, just barely, but enough for him to recognize as she urges, “This isn’t who you are.”


Who he is is someone who will do whatever it takes to make sure they all survive. She liked that just fine when she was on their side. He guesses her alliances have just shifted.


“You’re wrong,” he counters, calmer than he feels inside as his blunt nails dig into the palms of his hands. “This is who I’ve always been.” Someone who will do anything to protect the people he loves. He shakes his head, pressing his tongue to his teeth before he retaliates, “And I let you and Indra convince me that we could trust those witches when they have shown over and over who they are.” They stick up for their own kind, those led by darkness. That’s not them. “I won’t let anyone else die for that mistake.”


Not like so many already have. At his hands, at hers. It’s has to stop, and it’s going to, as long as he gets a say in it. It’s his responsibility.


“Bellamy, I need you,” she stammers, almost like a prayer, and it’s pathetic, but he can feel his resolve start to falter with those few words from her mouth. He draws strength from the pain he feels at seeing her face, at the demand lacing her request. She’s not listening to him. “And we don’t have much time.”


The words are like a sharp stab in the middle of his chest, freezing him in place. Disbelief washes over him, not at her words, but at the audacity she has to stand here in front of him and say them to him. “You need me?”


“Yes, I do!” Clarke retorts, desperate, hands flinging up. “I need the guy who wouldn’t let me kill those Mountain Men by myself.”


Everything he’s been trying to hold back, fearfully so, spills out. “You left me!” There it is. He tries to do damage control, tries to not come across as such a selfish asshole. “You left everyone.”


Her mouth curves downward, sad. “Bellamy --”


“Enough , Clarke! You are not in charge here,” Bellamy asserts, bitterly. She left that privilege behind when she took off. “And that’s a good thing because people die when you’re in charge.” It’s a low blow, but it feels good to see it land and cause some damage. Hurt her the way she hurt him. Tears pool in her eyes, a mirror image of himself. He can’t hold it back anymore than he can his words. “You were willing to leave us all behind and never look back. You made a deal with Lexa and in the end half our girls ended up dying because of it. Our people. People who trusted me.”


He can see it all dawning on her, word by word. That nothing she says can make his hurt, his anger go away. No magic words. Not this time. She shakes her head, stammering, blinking profusely as tears roll down her cheeks silently. “I --”


Bellamy turns away, no longer being able to take the sight of her face, the words coming out of his own mouth. He never wanted it to be like this. He presses his thumb and forefinger into his eyes to release some of the tension building up behind them, tries to take calming breaths in through his nose even though they’re still shaky.


“I’m sorry,” she croaks out, barely a whisper, and he turns to find her slumped down in the chair by the desk. Her blue eyes are filled with wetness, despite the ones that have already slid down her cheeks, as they land on his. “I’m sorry for leaving. I knew I could because they had you.” 


His heart stutters in his chest. What a fucking mess they’ve made. 


Clarke drops her head as her face finally crinkles with regret, hiding her tears as she tries to wipe them away. Bellamy finds his feet taking him over to her without his permission. He kneels down at her feet, gaze falling on her hands in her lap, tugging on the sleeves of her shirt. He doesn’t even hesitate and covers her hand with his, stares at it for just a little bit longer before he flicks his eyes up to look at her. His lungs aches fiercely with every shallow breath he draws. 


Reluctantly, she smiles, shakily, her thumb moving over the inside of his wrist as her other hand comes up to cover the back of his. “I know we can fix this.” The situation, them.


“I’m sorry, too,” he replies, sincerely. He’s not sure there’s anything here that can be fixed. He drops the vial of potion he had lodged in his other hand at her feet. It’s something he asked Roma to cook up for him a long time ago, just in case he ever found himself in trouble. 


“Hey, Bellamy! No, don’t,” she says, panic flickering across her eyes in the split-second before the crystal hits the floor and she realizes what he’s planning on doing. A purple cloud of steam rises up her feet and legs as he takes his distance, wiping at his the wetness beneath his eyes roughly. “No. Please, what did you do --”


Her body starts to freeze up, stuck in place, all she’s able to do is blink. Bellamy sniffs. “I don’t want you here, but I can’t let you leave again. If Pike sees you, the deal will be off the table. If you go back out there and join Lexa, you’ll die in this war.” He steps back toward her tentatively, moves her hair over her shoulder, softly running his fingers down one of the braids. His voice croaks. “I can’t let either of those things happen.”


There’s desperation in her eyes, and his chest constricts at the sight of her back in this place, back in the only home she’s ever known, unable to move. No matter how much he hates her, he never wants to see her hurt.


“I’ll be back,” he promises her, watching her eyes bulge as he moves for the door. “You’re safe here, don’t worry.” 


Once he’s finished with Pike, he takes some of the left-over tea in the kitchen upstairs, knowing Clarke’s body will be exhausted from every muscle being frozen up like that for over an hour. She doesn’t say anything as he comes in, one knee pulled up to her chest, her chin on top of it, distant look in her eyes. Doesn’t say anything either when he puts the tray down on the desk beside her as he starts filling up the cups with the steaming liquid.


“So it’s done?” His shoulders stiffen at the sound of her quiet voice. 


His hands only falter for a moment, shaking slightly as he puts the teapot back down on the tray. “It is.”


Bellamy picks up one of the cups, thrusts it further forward when she doesn’t take it from him, raising his eyebrows.


She grits her teeth together. “How do I know you’re not going to poison me again?”


He tilts his head, hand starting to tremble from the heat. If he puts it down now, she’ll probably think he’s lying, so he doesn’t. “Why would I chose the subtle route the second time around?” He could just throw another vial her way.


With a grunt, she relents, grabbing the cup from him, making sure their fingers don’t brush. Clarke wraps her hands around it and takes a sip, only after he’s taken one of his. 


He’s still looking at her, taking her in, when suddenly he hears insistent knocking on the door behind him. He rushes over, quickly pushing the button that opens it from the inside. Panic flares up inside him, thinking something happened to one of the girls. “Harper, what’s --”


She knocks the tea cup out of his hand, and it clatters to the floor loudly as she stares up at him with alarmed eyes. “Please tell me you did not drink that.”


He looks back over his shoulder at Clarke, as if she’s able to give him any answers, then back at Harper. Bellamy’s forehead creases. “What are you--”


“Shit,” she curses, pushing a hand into her hair as she grits her teeth together. “ Shit , you did, didn’t you?”


Bellamy lets out a sharp exhale. “What did you do?”


“It wasn’t me,” she cuts in immediately, insistent. “I asked Monroe to prepare a batch of tea and then Raven tried to spike it with Snachajus when she heard it was for Pike, but she accidentally mixed it up, using --”


Hodnesjus ,” Clarke fills in, edge to her voice, and when he turns, her eyes lock on his, her gaze heated. Bellamy has read enough of Indra’s old books to recognize the name. Sex pollen. 


“Fuck,” he murmurs, then turns back to Harper, takes a step towards the desk to grab the pot off the tray, thrusting it at her. “Get rid of this, fast.”


Her brow furrows. “What are you --”


“Get it out of our systems.” He closes his eyes, sweat starting to bead on his temples and the back of his neck, plastering his hair to it. “I mean , wait for it to get out of our systems. We only took a few sips.”


The braided blonde gives him a wary look, but doesn’t push it. She trusts him, more than she should. Turning on her heels, the doorway shuts behind her.


“I’m sorry,” Bellamy says, avoiding her gaze, feeling awkward all of a sudden. “I didn’t know.”


She hums, and he can still feel her eyes on his. He’s afraid to look back. 


“I know you’re with Lexa, I would never --” He squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to bring her back up again, or assume Clarke would ever do this even if she wasn’t linked with someone else. “What I mean to say is -- I would die anyway.”


“Isn’t that the point of sex pollen?” Clarke says dryly. “That it kills you if you don’t.”


“Jesus,” he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face tiredly. Of fucking course. “What kind of sex pollen are these?”


The corner of her mouth turns up, just slightly. “The witchy kind.”


Bellamy hums, resting back against the wall, everything he does or says feeling like a huge exhausting burden. She rises from her chair, slowly, her voice like honey as she talks, eyebrows raised.


“The best part about joining Lexa’s coven was this old woman, Callie, she had this power, Lectio Animo. She could see the truth in anyone’s soul. She saw something in me. A darkness. She helped me control it.” She licks her lips, dragging her teeth over her bottom one. “I’ve tried it out on a few people since Lexa. It works.”


His mouth feels dry. “Are you just saying this because you want me dead?”


“Why would I chose the subtle route when I could just say some magic words and have you drop dead?”


A scoff leaves the back of his throat. “Right.”


She’s so close to him, now, their chests almost touching, her fingers hovering in the air right in front of his bicep. He blinks at her, at this invisible force pulling him towards her that he now knows without a doubt they can’t deny any longer, grits out despite it costing him everything, “I’m still angry at you.”


Her mouth purses, eyes darkening as if taking him up on the challenge. “So am I.”


Then he leans down, connecting their mouths. Clarke parts her lips with an almost relieved whine, and he takes the opportunity to shove his tongue inside, pulling her head closer. If he’s completely honest with himself, it’s not just the sex pollen. Hell, he swallowed the tea all of five minutes ago. He’s barely breaking a sweat at this point, a dull throbbing in his limbs, just half-hard. Nothing he couldn’t resist if he tried.


There’s the realisation he’ll take anything she gives, no matter what. He stores it away for later. 


They move together, her arms locking behind his head, his hands dipping under her shirt to span across her warm back. For a moment, there is only the sound of their ragged breaths moving in and out of their bodies in rapid, unsynchronized gasps; a burning pit of fire building inside his chest that he clings into; his brain too dazed for rational thoughts. For a moment, there is nothing but contentment , and then he remembers.


Fuck, the pollen. He pushes her off, takes a step back. His mind races. The sight of her; lips parted, hair a mess, cheeks red from exertion -- it actually hurts . It’s getting harder to resist now, every cell in his body aching for her, singing her name. It was a whisper before, now it’s a chant. “We shouldn’t -- it’s the pollen. You’re not thinking clearly.”


“Shut up,” she declares, marching back towards him. Her jaw flexes, the muscle in her neck straining, hands trembling trying to hold back from him. “Fuck me. I’m tired of using my head. I promise you I don’t care about the pollen. I’ve wanted this for a long time, I just didn’t know how to ask for it.” Without ruining them, she means. And not they’re already ruined, so what does it matter at this point. Her eyes lock on his, her mouth red from kissing and her chest heaving up and down heavily. “ Fuck me .”


His will to resist is already hanging by a thin thread, and then she pulls her shirt over her head, pushing closer to him again. “Please.”


His mouth is back on hers in record time, hands sliding up her sides to cup her full breasts in his hands. She arches into his touch, and he has to chase her mouth to keep their lips connected. Clarke reaches behind her to undo her bra, and he helps her take it off before tugging off his own henley. 


Her hands fumble with his belt and her chest presses against his as she starts kissing down his jaw, the column of his neck, nipping at his shoulder. He knots his hand into her hair, pulling her head back to look at him. Their eyes meet in a heated gaze, dark and almost possessed, and time seems to not exist at all. After seconds or hours -- he doesn’t know anything but Clarke, Clarke, Clarke -- he’s leaning forward to thrust his tongue back into her mouth, biting down on her bottom lip softly after a moment before drawing back and soothing it with a soft peck.


“The desk,” she breathes out against his mouth, warm, finally yanking his belt loose and starting on the button of his jeans. 


Bellamy starts walking her backward until her ass hits the desk. He’s so out of his mind he reaches behind her and knocks down the stack of books onto the floor, not caring the papers fly everywhere. He lifts her by the back of her thighs, tossing her on top of the desk with a small thud. 


He finishes what she started, booting off his shoes and pushing his pants down his legs before stepping out of them and back towards her. She’s shimmied out of her own jeans, in a heap by the end of the desk. He kicks them away, leaning down to cover her body with his.


Her hands wind into his hair immediately, tugging on his curls as they kiss. She tastes sweet with a tart kick, like the lemon bars Delilah used to slave over for hours in the kitchen. He starts kissing down her neck and collarbone, one hand slipping into her underwear to feel how wet she is. All for him , he thinks, possessively, no matter how far she runs, she can’t run from this. From what they have, this draw, this connection. Him.


“Fuck,” he murmurs heatedly into the valley in between her breasts, collecting some of her slickness and swirling it around her clit. She makes a noise he wants to hear again, so he repeats it until she’s squirming beneath him, digging her knees into his ribs. 


His teeth sink into the flesh around her nipple softly, tongue teasing the bud before giving it a hard suck. She keens loudly, hips bucking up against his hand, sweat dripping down her collarbone as her eyes screw shut in pleasure. 


Bellamy moves over to her other breast as he alternates circling her clit with teasing her entrance with the tip of his finger. He takes note of every move she makes, every sound she lets out. She’s so fucking beautiful. 


“God, I missed you,” Clarke huffs out against his mouth as he comes back up to steal another kiss. She can barely kiss back, too overtaken by the heat building up in her core. He can tell she’s close by the way her whole body is taut and curved into him, fingers digging into his scalp, teeth sinking down in her bottom lip. 


He adds another finger, pushing further this time, curving them upwards, and she gasps at the suddenly invasion. He pumps his fingers in and out a few times, hitting that sweet spot before he takes them out, rubbing her bundle of nerves a few times before pinching it. 


Her orgasm crashes into her like a tidal wave, whole body stuttering, and he can’t help but try and swallow her moans as he keeps rubbing her softly, helping with the aftershocks. He doesn’t get tired of kissing her, can’t get enough now he’s finally allowed. She pushes his hand away once she gets too sensitive, pecking his mouth one more time before she lets her head drop down on top of the wood.


“You’re perfect,” he tells her, hand sliding up her stomach to cup her breast, rolling her nipple in between his thumb and forefinger playfully. A lazy smile spreads across her lips as her eyes flutter open, her cheeks flushed as she pushes herself up onto her elbows. “Come here.”


He leans closer, and she kisses him, slower than before, mouth warm on his as they pour everything they want to say into it; the resentment, the anger, the hurt -- all of it because of the way they feel about each other. He hasn’t felt at ease in the Orphanage since she left. Hasn’t let himself recognize why. Nothing feels like home without her. 


It doesn’t take long for the kiss to turn sloppy again, dirty, giving it as good as they get it. It’s more teeth than tongue as Clarke raises her hips to push her panties down. He helps her unhook it from her ankles and before he’s even tossed the garment aside she’s using her legs to pull him back towards her, pushing his boxers down so his cock jumps free against his abdomen. 


Her small fingers wrap around him, and he momentarily loses sight, throwing his head back with a groan. She spreads the precum gathered at the tip around with her thumb, then scoots back just a little so she can lean down and take him into her mouth, slick him up, get him ready for her.


Clarke takes as much of him as she can, bobbing her head up and down while her small hand works the rest of him. After a minute he pushes her away with a shudder running up his spine, and she smirks, leaning back down on her elbows. She licks her lips, wiping some spit of her chin with the back of her hand as she holds direct eye-contact with him -- both of their eyes dark, pupils fat with want. 


The sight of her, looking like that, practically makes his cock jump and he can’t wait any longer. He pushes inside of her, making both of them groan as he fills her slowly, giving her time to adjust.


Clarke pushes herself further up onto her hands, watching him disappear inside of her inch by inch. He cups her cheek, tilts her head back up. Running his calloused thumb over her red lips tenderly, he asks, “Okay?”


“Okay,” she echoes, eyes soft, fingers wrapping around his neck, pressing her mouth against his messily as he starts moving inside of her. She’s warm, tight and wet, perfect for him. 


They move together, chests flush together, breathing the same air together. It doesn’t take long for them to fall apart, his fingers moving over her clit in between them as she does so, him following only a few thrusts later. 


Clarke slumps forward, forehead sticky with sweat pressed against his collarbone as they catch their breaths. He kisses the top of her head, smoothing back her hair from her forehead as it lolls to the side, meeting his gaze. He grins, thumb tracing down her temple until it rests on her cheekbone, still panting, “Tea?”


Her throaty laugh is still the best sound he’s ever heard, maybe even better now he’s gone so long without it, and he doesn’t want to be deprived of it ever again.


Not much later, they’re on the floor, surrounded by his favorite smell in the world; old books and Clarke. He’s afraid that if they leave this room, it’ll all be over. “Happy Halloween,” she murmurs into his neck, nuzzling his skin. 


She’s sleepy; from being exposed to two different powerful herbs in the short span of an hour, the emotional exhaustion of their fight, the amazing sex he’s not going to be able to stop thinking about for the foreseeable future. It’s cute, how lethargic she gets, her voice more rough than usual, her nose scrunching up a little in the effort to keep her eyes open. He’s pretty sure he loves her, since he’s never felt about anyone else this way. He doesn’t only need her like he needs the air in his lungs, like the hot blood running through his veins, he wants her. 


“Making your return on the day of the dead, and you say I’m dramatic,” he teases, feels her smile against his throat. His fingers trail down her spine as silence stretches between them for a minute. “I am glad you’re back. The things I said -- I’m sorry. I was so angry at you for leaving -- I don’t want to feel that way anymore.” The anger got so much, it overtook him, turned him into a monster. That’s not who he wants to be. “I hope I didn’t fuck everything up today.”


She blinks her eyes open, shifting her head so she can look at him, one hand sliding up his neck, forefinger tracing the ridges on his chin softly. “I’m sorry, too,” she admits, voice clear. Her eyes fixate on a spot on his chest. “It’s hard. Forgiving yourself.” She takes in a sharp breath, meeting his gaze again as she urges, “We need each other, Bellamy. The only way we’re going to fix any of this -- and it can be fixed -- is together.”


He nods, ducking his head to connect their mouths in a chaste kiss. A promise. Together . Failing wasn’t possible when so much had already been taken from them. Survival was their only option.