Chapter Text
In truth, Clarke doesn't exactly know how she ended up... here.
Can hardly remember browsing the fine-print framing the latest outlier of another bad decision, doesn't precisely recall ever giving over anything resembling an agreement of sorts, the apparent signs and ill-timed hints gossamer-edged and ill-defined against the scene of normalcy in hindsight. Metaphorical floodgates evidently opened with the simple admission of if you need forgiveness, i'll give that to you; a newfound sense of trust bestowed with the simple words, purpose offered up on a silvery platter of a second chance, devotion and all of its accompanying unsavory intricacies following suit. Bellamy's newfound presence at her side more resembling a secondary shadow as of late, hardly ever more than a step or two away, never fully out of reach. Some old and dust-hemmed phrase about only feeding a stray dog if you want to bring it home forever lingering on the forefront of her mind.
Still, Clarke sometimes idles, the series of decisions preceding nights like this are hardly a neat, linear sequence to follow. Hardly any distinction on whether it was an active choice, or just something that was always going to happen. The magnetic, chemical ordering of the universe and all its natural orders simply demanding such things of them.
It's too late to be early, too early to be late; the faint stainings of a gathering dawn watery and weak, tentative brushes of warm color unfurling on the horizon hardly discernible against the heavy gleam of lingering starlight. Morning would be coming soon, and with it, the monotony of usual daily tasks; meats to be prepped and dried, cabin building to be closely scrutinized, an impressive array of scrapes and bumps and bruises to be attended to. A newly-established sense of routine, fraught and delicate and prone to easy dissolution at the first sign of trouble, that had been tentatively established in their first lonely year on the ground. The late summer air was tight with a bitter burning of cold framing the earth, a chill that yawned deeper and deeper with every sunrise. A lingering twinge of cold that clung to the teeth with every breath, the growing threat of winter evident even when half-buried beneath blankets, as Clarke currently was.
"Clarke," Bellamy whispers, chill-nipped hands roughly skating against the length of her leg, "are you awake?"
Clarke, sticky and soft with exhaustive sleep and not particularly affectionate, simply flexes her foot against the clasp of Bellamy's hand, turning her face deeper into the scraps of fabric meant to emulate pillows with a slow sound of complaint. The tempting haze of drowsiness settles thick and lascivious against her bones, cloying and sweet and difficult to resist. Bellamy was a little early on his wake-up call, maybe by only an hour or so, newly familiar gentleness certainly an immediate ploy for forgiveness; things often got crowded when sharing a bed, leadership of a group of rowdy teenagers, making decisions, and the like. Even so, the management of camp and all of its grating little intricacies was only her concern once the sun rose. Until then, everything and anything else was Bellamy's concern.
"Clarke," a little more insistent, whiny in a way almost compelling enough for Clarke to actually open her eyes. Once a startlingly unfamiliar admission of vulnerability, now turned intimately comfortable and frequently exchanged in the limited privacy of their semi-shared little space. Her knees draw together tighter, a reflexive movement born from the bitter first-burnings of awareness seeping tentatively into the body and warming the hard musculature, and she promptly pulls her foot away. Bellamy huffs a little at this, the impatient sound finicky and dulled to the basest of elements by the heavy curtain of hair and loose bedding scraps she pointedly buries her head further beneath.
The hand, once framing the fine arch of her foot, suddenly lands heavily at Clarke's hip. Big and warm and comfortable, even through the light swaddling of her sleep clothes.
The guiding motion to flip over onto her belly lacks any flimsy pretense of grace- Bellamy’s hands firmly tipping Clarke over from side to front. Unapologetically rough in nature without fully intended, brash and unpracticed and simply too greedy to feign a simple attempt at courtesy. A newly-familiar routine, like rough kisses traded unceremoniously in the brief moments of limited privacy, a hand on the small of her back, fingers winding through silken waves of hair as though an intricate set of rings.
“Later?” Clarke grumbles blearily, half-asleep and stretching out unhelpfully as Bellamy stuffs a half-rolled scrap of repurposed bedding beneath the cradle of her pelvis.
The rough hand that abruptly cups the thin slice of underwear between her warm thighs make Clarke flinch a little, sleep-sweetened edges of awareness lending an extra dosing of pleasant frisson lapping down the length of her spine. Hurts in a good way; like cutting your teeth against the pit of exceptionally tender fruit, like scratching an itch until the skin goes puffy and reddened and raw. Skin ground down into reddened rivulets, faintly freckled with fresh speckles of irritation-pinked plasma and half-dried blood.
“Can't wait that long,” Bellamy complains, warm and calloused fingers tracing the soft outline of Clarke’s slit through the unremarkable fabric of her Ark-issued underwear. Pushy movements rolling the puffy lips of cunt with a practiced familiarity, a surprisingly patient motion meant only to get the blood pumping, enticing the soft wetness at the silken heart of her to blossom. Despite the ravenous tremble it ignites somewhere low and tender in the shaded reaches of Clarke’s being, the repetitive motion is almost enough to lull her back into a half-sleep of sorts.
“Need it now, baby. Please.”
Clarke groans pitifully at this statement, twisting a little to bury her head in the awaiting cradle of newly-crossed forearms, her right leg slowly drawing a little higher against the perch of hastily rolled bedding. “You owe me."
“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees distractedly, the heavy click of his belt buckle ringing sharply in the quiet hour, “of course. Whatever you want, princess.”
Sated by the luxurious stretch framing the taunt muscles intricately overbound the length of her spine, as well as the promise of an owed favor, she hardly notices when blunted knuckles grate against her thighs as Clarke's underwear is promptly dragged halfway down her thighs. She's barely wet enough; the initial slide of his dick against her cunt threaded through with the faintest hint of discomfort, a tender flashing of pain broiling low and poignant against the delicate knottings of nerves propping up the weight of her consciousness.
The stretch of Bellamy notching his dick and pressing inside, stinging with enough reverence to make the muscles of her jaw ache, affords her as much grace as two hormonal teenagers with limited time could physically accommodate. Not especially romantic or nice, crass and careless in the way all things on the ground tend to be. Wet and messy and innately underscored with the raw discomfort of never living and only ever just surviving. Fingers curling tight and tenacious against course, frayed scraps of hastily assembled bedding, molten pleasure-pain gnawing sharply at the cavernous fathoms of Clarke's belly as Bellamy leverages more of his weight against her. Sleepiness shades the reaches of partial awareness, hanging sticky and stubborn against her face as she simply lets Bellamy use her as he needs. Integral internal mechanisms for something as silly as active awareness softened and reduced to a lackluster permanence, melted down into shimmery shades of pink animal desire at the persistent rolling of his hips.
"Fuck," Bellamy growls a little, face burying roughly into the fine slope wandering between the nape of her neck and joint of her shoulder, "fuuck."
The next press of his hips is rougher, desire at once softened and pitched into a fever frenzy by the softweteasy slide and complete lack of resistance. The firm bite of his hands frames her hips harder, fingers pointedly bearing down as the heat builds and builds and builds between them. Their pelvises meet with a sharp, wet clap, sticky-hot tendrils of slick stretching tenuously at the abrupt meeting of their lowerhalves, hot and heavy in the billowing chill of the late hour. The abrasive drag of fabric against the tender skin of her thighs and ass makes her wince a little, the tell-tale throb of his dick pounding hot and sharp alongside the steady pulse of Clarke's rising heartbeat. The saccharine, indulgent slide of distantly aware pleasure drawing thick and leisurely down the length of Clarke's spine makes the dip of her hips tilt upwards a touch, instinctive and unthinking in its desperate urge to get more pressure.
"Quiet," Clarke huffs between hard thrusts, voice shaking faintly under the weight of the sticky willows of a pathetic little whine aching behind tightly clinched teeth. Quickly melting down to all animal sounds behind achy lungs, "too loud."
Bellamy makes an abrasive, caustic sound of disagreement before his teeth dig firmly into the hard-wrought muscle of her shoulders. The next cry that warbles up from Clarkes constricted lungs is a touch bit louder against the dreary late-night hum of camp noise.
“Stop complaining,” he huffs, grouchy whine heavy and wet against the abused skin of her shoulders and nape.
The starry rivulets of mounting pressure rocketing up the length of her spine makes Clarke kick out a little, feet connecting gracelessly against the firm muscle of Bellamy’s flexing calves. The flimsy collection of bedding shaking purposefully against the weight of their thrusts, every shared threading of muscle drawing up tighter and tighter as Bellamy keeps fucking her. Delicate muscle fibers grow taunt under the amassing strain of wrought-iron stiffness sleuthing down her sweaty spine, every gasping inhale made all the more infrequent by the instinctive draw herself over the edge.
It's hardly a surprise when he comes, too keyed up and too perpetually frayed apart by the grate of chronic stress to last long against the sordid, sinful indulge of desperation and hormone-rush. It's sudden and explosive; the tender skin of her cunt puffy and delicate and rubbed raw under the last few desperate thrusts. The strenuous ache of her already bruised inner-muscles aching pointedly against the hard curve of her pubic bone, inner muscles rippling and flexing sharply against the heavy throb of Bellamy's cock as he swells up just a touch harder. It makes Clarke seize up a little bit, half-folded legs straining against the abrupt collapse of Bellamy's weight against her, a touch too far removed from active desire to actually get off beyond a few little flutters here and there. She can feel the faint pulse of heat blearily seeping deeper inside, hot rush of cum licking playfully against her most tender parts. The newfound pressure weighing Clarke down into the bed makes it easy to drift off into the sugar-sweet rushing of stars pounding mindlessly in her blood, desperate little shivers framing the mindless fluttering of her used and abused cunt. Bellamy's forearm slides beneath the hollow of her chin, clumsy and uncoordinated, dumbed down and drunk from the shiny, shimmering axis of rapidly-firing neurons, an addictive rush of endorphins billowing hot and sharp like a sunburn as he keeps her firmly clutched beneath him.
The sugar-flossed, honeyed afterglow lingers for hours within the scope of a few, measly minutes. The sweat cools softly between their bodies.
"Feel better?" Clarke rasps, eyes still shut and completely unresisting to the sleepy perch of Bellamy's full weight atop her. The forearm clasped heavily against her chest tightens a touch, clingy and sweet and enthusiastically appreciative of the unusual few moments of quiet indulgence. Something almost resembling genuine intimacy hanging politely against the hormone-heavy air, the relief tender and precious and almost alien in the reprieve it offers.
"Hmm," Bellamy grunts, tucking his face further into the sticky coalescing of hair gathered against her throat and shoulders, half-awake and softening dick twitching faintly inside her.
The precious, long-awaited relief of sleep never gets a chance to appropriately materialize for Clarke.
The honey-thickened promise of finally, finally getting to sleep for longer than a simple restless doze almost instantly evaporating against her tongue at the panicked fumbling against the haphazard collecting of tent materials. The frenetic, nervous whispers of Clarke, Clarke, are you awake? as one of the younger kids comes fumbling through the cheap material that blocks the entrance to the ragged old tent, Caleb cut his hand again but it's really bad this time and won't stop bleeding! The kid hardly even cares enough to avert their eyes at the spectacle of Clarke trying to shrug a half-awake Bellamy off her back, fumbling and frizzy and simply too exhausted to do much complaining against the dim light of an anxious gaze tracking her every slow attempt to get out of the makeshift bed. Even the mere idea of crying at the latest disruption seems to require an amount of energy that had long since deserted Clarke.
"You still owe me," Clarke grumbles, blearily pulling on still half-laced boots and fumbling for all necessary scraps of clothing, half-blind to the anxious shifting of the young kid urgently waiting to bring her to the latest victim of unsupervised stupidity that runs the night.
Bellamy simply snores a little in response.