#bellarkesmutnetwork

The first time Clarke meets the handsome guard, she’s been locked up for 47 days. At least she thinks it’s been 47 days. The first few were a sedative-induced blur, so she’s not sure how many she lost there, but she’s still got a while before she feels like she needs to be concerned. 

She isn’t sure what makes her take note of this guard. It’s not because he’s young. Most of them are young – The Skybox isn’t exactly an exciting post, so when it comes to assignments, the people who lack seniority are assigned here until they can move on to bigger and better things. So, no, it’s not his youth. It’s probably because he’s hot. Like, incredibly hot. His skin is so dark and pretty, even though most of it is covered by his uniform. She wishes she could see more of it. His face has nice, well-defined angles, a jawbone so sharp it could cut glass… And there’s something exciting about the way his eyes sometimes linger on parts of her, causing a sudden urge to squirm underneath his scrutiny. 

Something makes her remember this guard the next time he comes. And the next time. And the time after that. She learns his name, Blake, when another guard calls him from the hall one day. She’s not sure if that’s his first or last name, but, well, it’s something. 

It’s the same routine every visit. 

“Prisoner 319, hands against the wall.” His voice bellows, echoing harshly against the featureless walls of her cell. 

Every time, she obeys. But today, she gets… creative about it. She pops her ass out - enough to be noticed, but subtle enough to deny. She grins to herself when he trips over his own feet on his way into the cell. Still, he recovers quickly and manages to carry on as if nothing happened. So, the next time, she does it again, maybe with a little more sway, more dramatics… She gets a little thrill at the clearing of his throat. It’s not much. Hell, it’s barely anything, but it’s not like she has a lot here to keep her entertained… 

She can’t really predict when she’ll get a visit. She learned early on that they stagger the checkups. The practice makes sense – it keeps the prisoners from being able to calculate when they might have to submit to a search, making it easier for the guards to find contraband. 

The guard, Blake, allows her to turn around and stand up against the wall while he performs the customary search of her room. He turns over pillows and shakes out blankets. He always re-folds them, puts things back how he found them. She appreciates the gesture, however small. It feels strangely… considerate. Like maybe he feels bad that doing his job imposes so much on her. She likes him. 

Clarke’s visits are different in a few ways. She’s in solitary, so they pay extra attention to her mental state. She thinks it might also have something to do with being the daughter of a council member – They don’t want to have to explain to a person of such high authority that they weren’t paying close enough attention to catch onto self-harming behavior. And they certainly don’t want to have to explain a suicide. It’s easy enough to bury the truth if the delinquent is an orphan, but when it’s the daughter of Abby Griffin, some things just can’t be swept under the rug. 

Guardsman Blake asks the same questions every time, and she replies with the same monotonous answers, crafted so people won’t pay too much attention. She already gets special treatment. She doesn’t need to add to the reasons they’re watching her. 

One day, he surprises her. He talks. She’s deeply thrown off because he goes outside the scripted questions, sending her down a rabbit hole of over-analysis, wondering why he’s gone off-script. She’s silent while she thinks his question, and by the time she realizes that she’s been quiet for too long, she’s forgotten what he asked in the first place. 

“I’m sorry, what?” She asks, confused.

Guardsman Blake chuckles, softly, “I just asked where you got the ideas for your drawing, there.” He nods at the floor on the corner of her cell, where she charcoaled a landscape, a forest with a river cutting through it. At least, what she thinks that might look like. She doesn’t let people see these, always makes them small enough to wipe away with her sleeves when she hears the telltale sound of people entering. Now that he is examining her work, she feels naked. Exposed. Profoundly vulnerable, despite the drawing not being remotely personal in nature. 

“Oh.” She shrugs, “Earth Skills – you know the videos they had us watch for the modules?” 

He nods, studying the shapes of the trees, and she feels a bit cracked open under the scrutiny. “Yeah, I see it.” He tilts his head, “You know, you’re not supposed to have sharp objects in here.” 

Clarke looks at the charcoal in her hand, “I… I didn’t think this was really sharp.” 

His gaze peels into her, and she wants to shrink back into the corner because this feels like too much. She’s gone so many days now without significant human interaction and this extra attention is… overwhelming. He reaches out and wraps his hand around her wrist, and just the contact of his skin on hers somehow burns. She pulls her hand back, but he tightens his grip until she drops the bit of charcoal into his other palm. 

He clucks his tongue while inspects the object, keeping his hand wrapped tightly around her wrist. “This might be contraband,” He says with a smirk. She grabs for it, but he holds it up out of reach. She panics at the thought of it being taken away. It’s true, she shouldn’t have it. She knows her mom arranged for it to somehow get to her. It’s her only form of entertainment, the only thing that keeps her from going out of her damn mind in this box… She can’t bear to lose it. 

“Please! You can’t-” She shakes her head, tears welling up behind her eyes. He has a teasing glimmer in his eye, and his cockiness bothers her. She blinks back her tears and stands a little straighter, pulls at her wrist but finds his grip is still too strong on it to pull free. “My mother is on the council, and if she finds-”

The teasing smile drops from his face and he yanks her closer. “Oh, you think your privileged status gets you special treatment here?” Clarke shakes her head quickly, realizing she just pressed the wrong button for this man. She chastises herself for using the wrong threat, for invoking status against someone who, she guesses, has an axe to grind with the council. What the hell was she thinking? Most of the ark has a reason to hate the council. 

Her fingertips are tingling, cold and bluer by the second, now. She pulls on her arm and yelps, “You’re hurting me!” 

His face flickers with an apology that never makes it to his mouth. He loosens his grip just enough to allow blood flow to return, but not enough to actually let go. “Mommy isn’t here, Princess,” he spits out the name with venom. 

Clarke glares, “Don’t call me that.” 

He shakes his head, “I wouldn’t say you’re in a position to demand anything right now, Princess.” She hates the way her core curls with arousal at the angry tone of his voice, hates the way her hand already misses the harshness of his grip on her arm when he drops it. “You’re lucky I don’t call this in right now.” 

She snaps her gaze to his. Maybe he won’t turn it in… Might he even let her keep it? “Please, I’ll do anything, just…” She looks away, “It’s all I have. It’s the only thing in here that keeps me from losing my mind.” She looks him in the eye again, sees the way his gaze flickers quickly to her chest and back. Oh… “Anything…” She repeats, pressing forward so that her breasts graze his bicep. 

He sucks in a breath, body tensed, but doesn’t otherwise respond. Okay, fine. She’ll have to up her game. She’s seen this in movies she used to watch with her friends… 

She can do this.

He stands in place, so she steps closer, completely in his space. Her hand comes up and hovers over his form, not touching, like she can’t make up her mind where to she should set it first. She sees the way it shakes, so she presses it against his chest, just to keep herself steady. It’s unnerving, the way he stares at her, like he can’t decide if he’s disgusted or intrigued.

She stares at his broad chest, realizing she’s very much out of her element here. In the movies, seduction always fell into place quickly with just a few moves, never meeting resistance or apathy. Certainly not a hard or confused stare… She slides her hand down, ready to give up, but before it can go far, his own suddenly claps over it, keeping it firmly in place. She sucks in a sharp breath of surprise and looks up at him, eyes wide. 

“Be clear, Miss Griffin. What, exactly, are you saying?” He demands, his voice thick and graveled. 

Clarke considers her words carefully. He could easily use this against her. Does she really want to tack another charge onto the ones she’s already got stacked against her? She smirks, because what more can they possibly sentence her with? She already knows she’s going to be floated at 18. They’re not going to let her live, not when she knows that the ark is on its last legs. She has literally nothing to lose. 

She slides her hand back up his chest, teasing at the buckles of his uniform. “I’m saying, I’ll do anything…” She curls her fingers along the collar of the jacket, and assures him with a sultry smile, “You can do whatever you want to me…” 

“You know that bribery is against the law, Princess.” He says, with a hint of intrigue. His voice is a rough sound she can practically feel rumbling through her core. 

She cocks an eyebrow, “What are they going to do? Float me twice?” 

He narrows his eyes, the shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, even though she can tell he’s trying to suppress it. She’s won, and she knows it… 

“Anything?” He asks, still skeptical. 

She nods, her other hand finding its way to his jacket to play with the zipper. “Whatever the hell you want, Sir.” She bites on her lip, watches his eyes flare with something exciting, though a little frightening. She wonders if maybe she’s in over her head, if maybe this is something she’ll regret… It might be, but still, this is far more interesting than messing around with charcoal drawings for hours on end. 

Without warning, he whips her around so her back is to his chest. He pins her arms behind her with one hand, holds them tightly in place by the elbows. His other hand slowly travels over her front, between her breasts, until he rests them just under her neck. His thumb and fingers are splayed across her collarbones, dipping into the hollows formed with each heavy breath. 

“Whatever the hell I want…” He chuckles, lips by her ear, voice dark and ruthless, and oh, god, altogether thrilling. 

She nods, tensing up at the way his fingers dig into her skin, crushing at her bones. He doesn’t move but his breath is harsh, ruffling her hairline. Her chest rises and falls opposite his, like some fucked up symbiosis of movement. His hand slides back down, slow and steady, tracing the outer curve of her breast and wrapping into the dip of her waist. The weight of it as he travels lower is intoxicating. 

“Oh, god,” She gasps, her body arching into his touch as he kneads at her ass, grasping and twisting the flesh of it in his large hands. 

He growls, a menacing sound if she ever heard one, “You sure you know what you’re asking for, Princess?” 

She struggles against his hold, curious just how strong his grip is, and finds she’s unable to break from it. She feels a jolt of excitement go straight to her center, tempered by a flash of apprehension, because this man is already proving to be more… forceful than she anticipated. What happened to the nice guy who folded her blanket after searching it? Where is the guard who gave her gentle smiles for her obedience? Who is this man in his place?

She's not sure who he is. She just knows she wants him. Badly

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” She hisses, trying to meet his aggression with her own. It gives her a flare of power despite the rather defenseless position in which he’s holding her. His grip on her ass gets a little meaner, pulling from her needy whine as she throws her head back. “Come on,” She pleads, wiggling against him. 

He huffs, “You’re fucking demanding, aren’t you, Princess?” This time he says the name with a little less malice, though it’s still laced with a hint of annoyance. She knows he’s provoking her. It works. She tilts her head to look at him, gives him a pointed glare so he can see just how irritated she is. He returns it with a satisfied smirk, tightening his grip on her elbows. 

“Maybe if you’d deliver-” she’s cut off by his hand wrapping around her front, splaying across her stomach and pulling her back against him. “Fuck…” She gasps when she feels his erection against her back. 

“Don’t you worry, Princess…” He says, grinding himself against her. “I’ll fucking deliver.” His hand darts from her stomach to her chin, swiftly jerking it to face straight ahead. “Eyes forward, understood?” 

She nods, a humiliating rush of wetness seeping into her underwear, “Yes.” 

He pinches her breast, hard enough to sting through both her shirt and bra, “Yes Sir.” 

She whimpers, jerks in his grip, but obeys. “Yes Sir.” 

He chuckles, but gone is any sweetness or amusement. It’s a harsh, ugly sound. It scares her, yes, but she can’t deny the inkling of excitement she feels bloom inside that fear. His hand slips under her shirt, quickly finds her breasts, freeing them from the cups. The sound of ripping seams alarms her for a moment, but then he flicks his thumb over her nipple and that’s the last thought she can spare for her undergarments… 

He has yet to let up on her arms, and her shoulders ache from the awkward stretch. She pulls against him, “My arms-” She whispers, but gets no response. She tries again, a little more humble, “My arms, Sir.” 

“That’s better,” He tells her as he loosens his grip and releases them. She rolls her shoulders and his hands come up to massage them. The gesture is unexpectedly kind and throws her for a loop, but she doesn’t stop him. Within seconds, the ache is gone and before she can stop herself, she leans back against his chest with a sigh. Then, just like that, the moment is gone.

“Hands against the wall, prisoner.” He demands roughly, leaving no room for negotiation. She quickly complies, shivering as his palms travel in firm paths over her sides, under her shirt, gathering it up to expose her chest so he can grasp at her breasts again. “Your tits…” He breathes, “They’re fucking incredible…” It hurts, the way he grabs at them, pulls on the tender flesh. It’s a confusing sensory input when he pinches and twists at one nipple while he gently grazes the tip of the other. 

She nods, smiling, trying to steady her shaky form, “I’ve heard that before.” It’s true. She learned quickly that she could use her assets to manipulate situations in her favor. Other guards seemed impervious to their charm, but she always had a feeling that Guardsman Blake would have a weakness for them. 

“I’ve wanted to get my hands on these for a while…” He pinches her nipples tightly between his fingers, pulls them away from her body. Her hands curl against the wall, fingernails scraping against it in search of something to grip. She’s feeling light-headed already and he’s barely done anything yet… 

She pushes her ass against him again, grinding against his erection, a surge of victory flashing through her when his movements stutter. He releases her breasts, brings a hand to her stomach and squeezes her body to his, and she could swear she can feel him get harder. 

“Fuck…” He curses against her hair. The clink of his belt buckle echoes through the room, the hiss of his zipper loud as he pulls it down. His sigh of relief as he pulls his cock free is absolutely electrifying. She wants to feel it in her hands, but resists the urge, keeps her hands where he told her… But she needs his hands back on her. Needs their harshness, compelling her to feel something besides the apathy of solitude. 

“Please…” 

“What do you need, Princess?”

His hand is back on her body, and she notes that his jacket is off, his forearm bare. His fingers curl under her waistband, but pause at the button. “Tell me what you want.” He asks impatiently. His tone sends a chill down her spine and she has a sudden sick fear that no matter what she tells him, he’ll take her however he wants. 

Would he stop if she asked? Did she really push him over the edge? She abandons that train of thought, not wanting to consider what it means, that the thought of him losing control makes her feel even more turned-on.

“Hands,” she pants, “Hands… fingers… please.” She isn’t exactly proud of her breathlessness, but this is unlike anything she’s ever experienced. 

He grunts, making quick work of her button and zipper. His fingers slip into her underwear and she hisses at the roughness of his skin when he parts her folds. He doesn’t wait before sinking a finger into her. 

“Fuck, you’re wet…” He remarks with a thick hum. “You like it rough, Princess?” 

She sucks in a sharp breath at the invading digit, “I- I’ve never…” She’s never had rough or even really imaginative sex. She always figured she had enough life ahead of her to try new things, so with her partners in the past, she always engaged in familiar comforts. This? A little mean, kind of harsh? No, she’s never done it like this before. 

“Never had it rough?” He asks, more curious than mocking. She shakes her head and he murmurs something about experience and dying but she can’t make out everything he’s saying over the rush of blood in her ears once he adds a second finger. 

His hand is huge, and with two fingers buried inside her, he’s still able to wrap his thumb around the front of her pubic bone to envelop her mons in his fist. Her clit rubs just right against the palm of his hand this way, and he seems pleased with her eager mewls. He blessedly continues to move his hand with precision that threatens to take her apart despite his painful grip on her cunt. 

“Is this doing it for you, Princess?” He asks, his tone laced with amusement and surprise.

She nods, keening when he curls his fingers inside her, hitting a good place she can never seem to reach on her own. He chuckles, and it sounds like ridicule, but she can’t quite bring herself to care too much when she’s this close to climax. His treatment is rough, but it’s faster and more effective than her own fingers have ever been. 

That delicious pressure builds in her core, “I need-” She starts, but doesn’t know what she needs. But he seems to. He moves his hand faster, his rough fingers dragging, no, digging against that place inside her. And it still hurts, but it’s a good hurt (so good). She comes with a guttural moan, a shiver of bliss shooting through her, walls clamping down around his fingers, his breath hot against ear. 

“That’s a good girl, so good for me…” She hears him say over the ringing in her ears. “You’re tight, Princess.” He remarks, “So fucking tight, but you’ve gotta relax for me if you’re gonna take my cock.” She tries, she really does, but his fingers keep winding her up when he scissors them inside her, stretching them against her still-quivering walls. 

“I’m trying,” She says. She feels something wet on her cheeks, and realizes with a start that she’s crying. His fingers stop moving when he sees her tears. 

“Fuck…” He recoils, “What the fuck am I doing?” She can hear the self-loathing in his voice, the sudden disgust with himself. He starts to pull his hand back, but she slaps her palm over his forearm, holding him in place with a desperate cry. 

“Please!” She sniffs back her tears and angrily wipes them away with the back of her other hand. She realizes she’s removed them from the wall, against his orders, and she finds herself hoping he’ll do something about it. 

He sighs behind her, his hand still on her cunt, but no longer gripping so harshly on it. “I shouldn’t have-” He begins. “This is fucking wrong… You’re a pris-” 

Clarke cuts him off, shaking her head, “No, please, I need this.” She squeezes her hand over his muscled forearm, drags her palm up and down it until she feels him relax a bit. He drops his head on her shoulder, turns his face into her neck and breathes deep, sending shivers up and down her body. 

“Fuck…” He says, then presses his mouth in a slow kiss to the side of her neck. Goosebumps break out over her whole body with the wisps of breath over her skin. 

“Yes…” She nods, frantic. “Fuck me… please.” 

Guard Blake’s head is heavy on Clarke’s shoulder and she can feel his thick swallow while he considers her plea. Her free hand makes its way to his hair, fingers tangled in the strands, surely messing up the slicked-back style he always wears. 

She asks one more time, dropping her head against him with a choked cry, “Please.”

He breathes her in deeply, and without his jacket in the way, she takes a moment to feel his solid chest as it expands against her. The fabric of her shirt sticks to the sweat on her back, the near-sodden material pulling on her skin as she squirms against him, desperate for a reaction. 

“Alright,” He exhales against her skin, “Alright, I’ve got you.”

Relief shudders through her with his acquiescence. She gives his arm a gentle squeeze before letting it go, and he slides both hands to her waist. He pulls her underwear and pants together over her ass and pushes them down her thighs. She steadies herself with a hand against the wall, twists her hips and shimmies, then steps out of one pant leg, not bothering to release the other one before she grinds back against him. 

She gives a contented hum at the contact. His erection is hot against her bare back, and she wishes she had more time to appreciate what she’s realizing is a very large cock. She feels a flash of apprehension at the size. This might be more than she’s ready to handle. She shakes off that thought as his fingers find their way back to her center, more gently than before. He parts her folds, slowly, sweetly, while he steadies her with his other hand on her hip.

Clarke grasps her bare breasts with her free hand, tweaking and pulling on one, then the other… She drops her head forward while he sinks two fingers back into her cunt, slowly stretching her. She’s grateful for that courtesy, now that she has an idea of his considerable girth. She still hasn’t properly touched him, but enough clues are there to give her a rough estimation – she’s certain that he’s far bigger than anyone she’s been with before. 

It doesn’t take long for her to get impatient. She drops her hand from her tits and grabs onto his wrist between her legs, trying to get his attention.

“That’s enough,” she pleads, “Come on…” 

He huffs, seemingly amused by her impatience. He wraps his other hand over her wrist and pins it to the wall in front of her, joining the one already there. She leans her weight against her palms, bending forward at the waist at a slight angle. He’s taking too long, so she arches her back, grinds her ass against him, grinning a bit at his strangled response. 

"I've got you," He says, and finally she feels his cock sliding between her folds, slicking himself up with her arousal. She lets go broken little whimpers when he bumps her clit, her limbs jolting at the touch. Her jaw goes slack as the bulbous head pushes in, stretching her with his girth. He stops just inside, letting her tight opening adjust to his thickness. She thinks for a moment that maybe she should’ve let him prepare her a little longer because she’s already feeling a little light-headed from this. 

“Just breathe for me,” He directs, and she blows out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. When she inhales again, she feels the cloudiness in her head begin to dissipate. “That’s right,” He coaxes, “Just keep breathing with me, okay?” She does as she’s told, feels each of his inhales and exhales in her cunt where his cock rests heavily inside. Her body shivers at the soothing dance of his fingers up and down her side. She lets herself fall farther forward, bending her elbows and letting her forearms rest against the wall. 

“Give me more,” Clarke begs as she rests her forehead in the crook of her elbow, not daring to move the rest of her body. Her face screws up in discomfort as he pushes a little farther in. She comes up on her tiptoes, like a reflex, as her body resists him, but he carefully pulls her back down, holding her in place with a large hand wrapped around her hip. 

“Breathe again,” He urges. She hisses this time, fingers clenching in a fist against the wall as she takes more of him in. 

She feels him opening her more and lets go a wrecked moan, "Oh god..." His free hand comes to her breasts, holding and supporting each one in his palm, as if to examine and compare the heaviness of one to the other. She keens when he playfully rolls a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, distracting her from the stinging stretch of his cock as he fills her, bit by aching bit. 

“You’re doing so good, Princess.” His encouraging tone makes her feel fluttery inside. An altogether foreign feeling after so many weeks in solitary confinement. “Just keep breathing.” Finally, she thinks he might be all the way in, and he stops moving again.

“Are you-” she falters, unable to come up with the words to ask if he’s all the way in. He knows, though.

“Not yet… Can you take a little more?” He asks, voice careful but cracking at the edges with desperation.

Clarke shakes her head, “Just… I need a minute.” She thinks maybe after she relaxes, loosens up, she’ll be able to take more. She isn’t sure how long that’ll be. She’s never tried to “loosen up” for something this large.

She feels his fingers dig harshly into her hip, knows they’re going to leave bruises, proof of how much it strained him to remain still inside her, to hold himself back from thrusting completely in. She’ll relish the marks until they fade, until the evidence of their dalliance is gone and she's left wondering if it ever happened at all.

“That's alright,” He assures her. “You don't have to.” He shifts on his feet, and she feels his movement with her entire body, even more intensely than before, now that he's filled her so much. It's a mesmerizing sensation, feeling so completely connected to him, like he's somehow part of her.

Clarke releases a throaty moan when he shifts again, feels herself clench down around him, and his responding groan is exhilarating. Just the little bit of movement, that slight drag of his cock against her walls, starts to feed a fire deep in her core.

His voice is strained, “Tell me when I can-”

She cuts him off with a frantic nod, “You can… You can move.” As he pulls out, achingly slow, she swears she can feel every ridge, every blessed vein as it passes through her over-stretched slit.

He blows out a strong breath, “Goddamn, Princess…” he says the name with startling affection, running his large hand up her spine and back down her side, then settling in the curve of her waist. “If you could see what I'm seeing right now.”

“Tell me,” she rasps, not caring how desperate she sounds.

“Fuck,” He swears. He pauses, as if to consider how filthy he wants to be. His breaths are heavy and loud in the air, and every moment of anticipation makes her body scream for more. Finally, he continues, voice raspy, “Your tight little cunt is stretched around my cock, and it's…” She hears him scrub a hand over his face before it comes back to her waist. “It's fucking incredible.” He pulls out until just the thick head is still inside. She gives a languid hum when she feels him tease her opening. He huffs, “It’s like your pussy is clinging to me.” She groans into her arm, visualizing his words. A heavy sigh forms deep in her chest when he starts to push back in, this time more easily than the first. And the next time even easier. And the time after that…

She feels her tension ease up as the sting of his stretch fades, giving way to pleasure. He bends forward, leans his hand on the wall above her head. She looks up at it and finds herself captivated by the knotty network of veins, follows them as they converge and begin to twist up his muscled forearm. Never has she been so turned on by hands as she is right now. His body is bowed over her own, so close she can feel his restrained grunts as he sets an unhurried rhythm. His actions are careful and deliberate, like he’s worried she’ll break. It’s slow and languorous… almost sweet.

It’s not enough.

“More,” She begs on a choked whisper, “I need more.”

“More what?” he asks. 

She makes a frustrated noise, “Like you were doing it before.”

“Before?” He sounds confused.

She breathes out, still mildly unsure of her request, “...Rough.” She arches her back and splays her hands against the wall, presses her weight into them to push herself against Bellamy. She lets go a shocked gasp alongside his unrestrained growl, as her body yields to the rest of his cock. She takes a moment to just feel him, buried to the hilt inside her.

She can practically hear the conflict in his mind while he considers her appeal, but to her delight, he doesn’t take long to come to a decision. His hand twists into her hair, abruptly pulling back and forcing her body into an even more severe arch.

“Rough?” He cocks a brow when she glances at him, a flicker of skepticism in his eyes, maybe a little unsure of Clarke’s demand, still wondering if she can handle it.

She narrows her eyes, now even more irritated by his carefulness. “You heard me.” To emphasize her point, she pulls off a bit and aggressively grinds herself back on him. Her eyes slam shut as his cock surges deep, his rumbling growl vibrating through her, it’s all so much. A licentious cry tears from her throat, the loud noise cutting through the room, bouncing off the walls.

His large hand flies to her face, covering her mouth so fast that a loud slap rings through the room. With the impact, her mind goes blank. It stings, and for a moment, every thought in her head is centered on the echo of his palm connecting with her skin. She feels her cunt clench down, a wave of arousal crashing over her as she abruptly comes back to the moment – her aching pussy stretched tight over his thick cock, her mouth covered by a hand so big, his fingertips nearly touch her ear.

She knows it was accidental, an unintended consequence of trying to keep them from getting caught. A bout of shame courses through her, because she liked it. Her wanton moan is muffled by his hand, but very much there.

“Fuck,” he curses under a panicked breath and loosens his grip. “I’m so sorry, that-”

She claws his hand away from her face, shaking her head, uninterested in his apologies. “Again,” she pants, ignoring her embarrassment at the throaty croak. “Do it again.”

He contemplates it for a moment, then covers her mouth. She realizes he misinterpreted her demand when he’s careful with the motion, doesn’t let his hand slap against her skin. She wants to correct him, wants to tell him that’s not what she meant, but then he crushes his palm hard against her face, twisting her hair a little harder around his fist, and yeah that’ll do.

She moans, a wanton sound from deep in her chest, when he draws his hips back. Her walls quiver around him, as if she’s unwilling to let him go. The movement is almost painful again given how strained she already is. Still, the sting is welcome, craved, even. Somehow, it reminds her that she’s human. For weeks, she’s felt lifeless, numb… Her drawings are a small indulgence, but barely enough to keep herself from caving under the desolation of her solitude. She misses feeling. Even the devastating sorrow of losing her father would be preferable to the anesthetized state of emotion to which she’s wasted.

But this guard, with his harsh treatments and short temper, opening her wider than she’s ever been – he makes her feel more alive than she’s felt since before her life went to shit. His roughness is invigorating and spins a heavy coil of need in her abdomen. When he moves again, it’s almost too much. He pushes in, forcing her open and driving everything from her mind but lust for more.

“Feels so fucking good,” He growls, the guttural sound sending shivers through her body. “Clinging to my cock like this…” He gives an extra push every time he bottoms out, a move that sends a shock up her spine, the pleasure-pain mixing deliciously with the sting of her scalp and the grind of his hand against her mouth. “…Wouldn’t have pegged you for rough,” He remarks, already sounding winded from the exertion, or maybe they’re limiting oxygen to this sector already. “This rough enough for you?” He asks against her neck, taking little nips that prickle her skin.

Clarke shakes her head, because it’s not. She wants to feel the world stagger again, like she did when his hand struck her face… She liked the way it tasted, the way it stunned her senses. He moves his hand away from her mouth and she gasps out, “I want-” but cuts herself off, unsure how to ask for it.

He halts his movements and loosens his grip on her hair, “What?” He grunts, “Tell me what you want.”

“I-“ She words it sixty different ways in her head, but can’t seem to get a single one to reach her tongue.

He responds with sigh, slightly irritated at its edges. “Come on, say it.” He urges.

“When you hit me.” She whispers, wishing she could sound less small, less weak, less fucked-up for wanting something so debased and wrong. “I-” She clears her throat, “I liked it.”

His breath tickles her skin when he chuckles, “Is that right?” He sounds a little disbelieving, like maybe he isn’t sure he heard her right. “You liked it?” His grip on her hair tightens again and he wraps it around his fist, pulling it back so he can see her face from above. His smile is a little wicked and sends a bolt of excitement through her. Suddenly she feels a sting radiate from her cheek, drawing out a hungry moan. “Like that?” She still doesn’t see his hand when he repeats the action, but the crack in the air rings in her ears with the slap and draws a filthy groan out of her.

She hisses, “Yes… fuck.”

“Rough… Alright, Princess.” His tone holds dark promises that shower her senses with anticipation and need.

He makes her take him, over and over, bottoming out each time, making her feel every brutal inch of him. He holds her head in place, fist tight in her hair while he fucks her open.

“Fuck, you do love this…” He growls, smacks her cheek again, “You feel that? How your cunt squeezes me every time I slap you?”

Clarke nods, moaning a litany of fuck, and god, and yes. She’s so sensitive and thoroughly stretched out, every movement of his cock in her swollen slit sends a jolt of white-hot pleasure through her body. The tension builds, becoming unbearable, in desperate need of release.

“Come on,” He grunts, picking up the pace of his thrusts. “I want to feel it.” He’s insistent in the filthiest way. “…wanna feel you come on my cock.”

She’s so, so close – she can nearly taste it (or maybe she bit her lip a little too hard). She just needs something to get her over the edge. Her hands curl into fists, blunt fingernails digging harshly into her palms and cutting half-moon indents she’ll find later.

“I need-” She starts, but her thoughts are too chaotic form the words. Somehow, he knows. He slides his hand down her front, between her thighs, finds her swollen clit and rubs it in tight, rough circles that match his rhythm. He snaps into her with a renewed vigor and there it is... Her body tightens around him and he answers it with an appreciative groan.

“That’s right… Fuck, I can feel it.” He rasps and wraps a hand over her face again, trapping her wrecked cries. Her lungs fight for air while his voice rumbles over the blood rushing through her ears, “Just let go for me…”

She does.

Every muscle in her body goes taut with bliss, pulling so tight that her bones hurt, until her orgasm finally crashes through her. The force of it shakes her from within, pulsing to the beat of her heart. A sharp streak of pain shoots from her shoulder, and she vaguely registers his teeth sinking into the flesh as his thrusts lose rhythm.

His cock jerks and spasms as he comes inside her.

His body curls powerfully around her, amplifying the warmth and tingles that scatter over her skin. A darkness flickers at the edges of her vision, growing steadily wider while her limbs are overcome by an unsettling flimsiness. She vaguely registers her body falling forward.

All she hears as she collapses is a distant “Oh, fuck…”

 Clarke snaps into consciousness, drawing desperate gulps of air into her lungs. Her skin is covered in a cold sweat as her mind tries to grasp where she is. Confusing currents of pleasure pulse through her, swelling from her core out to her fingers and toes as a soothing shhh resonates in her ears. As her breaths even out, an alarmingly unfamiliar scent floods her senses. A panic rushes through her and she thrashes against whatever is crushing her ribs. The movement makes her suddenly aware of the stretch of her cunt and all at once, she remembers where she is.

The guard…

His arm is slung across her body, holding her firmly against his chest as he soothes her shakes with warm utterances.

“Shhh, you’re okay, Princess.” He murmurs softly, “I’ve got you…” The gentleness in his voice is instantly soothing. She nods and brings her shaking hands to grip onto his forearm where it crosses her body. Her fingers tingle where they meet his skin. She drops her head back and closes her eyes, feeling his chest expand with each breath. The repetition lulls her, and she finally lets herself surrender to the soft euphoria that flows through her.

“What happened?” She whispers, finally.

He huffs, “I didn’t realize my hand was covering your mouth and nose… I accidentally blocked your airway and you fainted.”

Clarke nods weakly, “Oh… How long was I out?”

His thumb rubs an absent pattern against her skin. “Not long. A few seconds, maybe.” She can hear the flustered undertones in his voice as he explains. “Your legs gave out and you closed your eyes, kind of like a long blink. Then you suddenly came-to, pretty confused.” She cranes her neck to look up at him and he meets her eyes with a remorseful expression. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault.”

She cracks a half-smile and curls her fingers over his forearm, “You’re forgiven.”

He looks relieved as he closes his eyes with a nod. He shifts his weight a surprised yelp escapes her lips. Her cunt is so swollen and tender, that every movement he makes reverberates through her body with jolts of pleasure-pain.

“Wait!” She protests as he begins to pull out. He halts for a moment.

“It’ll be more uncomfortable the longer we wait.” He explains, his voice gentle and apologetic. 

She nods, “Oh…” She winces as he pulls out with merciful slowness. His cock is heavy and softening as it slips out, leaving her with a sense of emptiness in its absence. A surprised gasp escapes at the sudden warmth of his come as it drips out of her, down the inside of her leg. The trickle gets as far as her knee before he grabs a spare cloth from a box and catches it, wiping carefully up her inner thigh and patting her clean.

“Here, step in there,” He instructs as he situates her pants so she can put them back on. He doesn’t say anything to fill the silence as he helps pull them back up her legs and over her hips, then carefully fastens the button closure. He stands up again, pulling her shirt back down into place and smoothing it over her body.

“You doing alright, Princess?” He asks.

“Clarke.” She corrects. “My name is Clarke.”

He ducks his head, but not before she catches a hint of a smile on his lips. “Bellamy.”

“Bellamy.” She repeats, enjoying the way her tongue curls around each syllable. It’s a good name.

He nods toward the forgotten drawing on the floor, “You shouldn’t hide those.”

She frowns, confused, “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head and considers her question as he shrugs his jacket back on and zips it up. “Your drawings are really good… Don’t hide them.”

“Okay…” She nods slowly. She cracks a small smile at the way he shuffles his feet a little awkwardly. “Thanks.”

Bellamy gives her a quick nod, cheeks visibly reddened.

“I mean it.” She gestures vaguely between them, “For everything... Thank you.”

Before he can say anything else, a noise comes through the radio on his hip, calling for guards to disperse a developing brawl in another cell. “I’ve gotta-“

She waves him off, “I heard – sounds like they need you.”

“Yeah, something like that.” He makes for the door. As it opens, he hesitates, turns back to face her. His mouth moves like he’s going to say something, but the words don’t materialize, cut off by the rush of guards running past her cell. He steps out and gives her a final nod as the cell door slides shut.

Clarke sits on her bed, wincing at the ache between her legs. She lies back on the threadbare pillow, already consumed by thoughts of Bellamy. Her eyes close and the memory of their liaison plays on a loop. She smiles, thinking about what she’ll do next time they meet.

 He doesn’t come back.

 Days, then weeks tick by without hearing from him. At first, she wonders if he got promoted to a better post. He didn’t even say goodbye... It makes her feel sick… Used… Angry. Over time, the anger fades, until one day she’s gripped by the sudden fear that someone saw them. She tortures herself with guilt, wondering if he got in trouble for fucking a prisoner he was guarding. If he was punished because she tempted him too far.

On his advice, she stops hiding her drawings. They get bigger, covering the walls in murals of the Earth she sees in her dreams.

She thinks of him less often as her eighteenth birthday draws nearer. The date of her execution looms, distracting her from thoughts of freckled cheeks and dimpled chins.

Eventually, she starts to forget small details, like the shape of his eyes, then bigger ones, like the sound of his voice. Until she starts to wonder whether it happened at all. Maybe the memory was just a dream.

Maybe Bellamy Blake never even existed…

 A month before her eighteenth birthday, Clarke wakes up strapped to an exodus ship hurtling towards an irradiated Earth. The chaos of the landing is overwhelming, and she struggles to get the attention of the flustered teenagers, bustling about with their newfound freedom. When someone mentions opening of the dropship door, she panics and makes a run for the ladder.

“Stop! The air could be toxic!” She pleads as she lowers herself down.

The answering voice grips her with painful familiarity, stopping her in her tracks. He looks her in the eye, recognition flickering briefly before he schools an authoritative smirk on his features.

“Clarke.” Bellamy hears the gravel in his own voice, exhaustion seeping into it. Clarke looks up at him from staring hard at a list of parts Raven needs, at maps with potential fall out bunkers, because goddamn it, they’ll save more than a hundred people. They know how to keep people alive, it’s what they do. Her eyes are a little unfocused, and she blinks.

“You okay?” she asks. She never takes it for granted, how he’s feeling, how he’s doing, that yes, he’s really here with her, all in.

“Me? I’m good,” Bellamy says, managing to inject some levity into his voice that’s nearly gone after 20 hours of being awake. “It’s you I’m worried about. You need to take a break, Clarke. You need sleep.”

“Do I?” Clarke asks, looking around for the first time at the empty briefing room. “It can’t be that late. Where’s Raven?”

“Gone to bed,” Bellamy says. “And yes, it is.”

“Just another hour,” Clarke says, looking back down, fingers at her temples. “Then I’ll sleep.”

“Uh-uh,” Bellamy chuckles, half exasperated, half fond of her. He steps into her space and Clarke sways toward him without even looking up. He drops a hand to her shoulder and feels her sigh, smoothes it across her back and up until he holds the delicate nape of her neck under his palm. “You work another hour now and you’ll lose all of tomorrow. Come on, Clarke. You need to rest.”

Clarke slumps a little. “What about you?” He hears the careful moderation in her voice between hope and concern and he gives her neck a little, affectionate shake.

“I’m coming with you, you think I trust you to stay in bed? No way, Clarke, I know you. I leave you alone and you’ll sneak right back to work.”

It’s not entirely true, but it’s an easy explanation for what they’ve started doing. They don’t talk about how more often than not, they end up curled up in the same bed, Clarke’s fingers tucked into creases of Bellamy’s sleeve, sharing the same breath across the distance of a pillow. The fear that plagues Bellamy when the lights go off and he’s left to his own devices to find sleep is lessened with Clarke’s warmth and soft breath close by. The deep purple shadows under Clarke’s eyes always seem just a little better in the morning after she falls asleep with Bellamy.

“Ok,” Clarke breathes and leans back into Bellamy’s hand. He gives her a gentle squeeze and steadies Clarke as she stumbles a bit when she stands up.

Her room is just down the hall from the council room and Bellamy kicks the door closed behind him. Clarke is already pulling off her shirt and wiggling out of her leggings and Bellamy follows suit. He hangs his jacket on the back of the chair by her desk, unbuckles his thigh holster and then strips off his thick canvas pants so he’s left in just his undershirt and boxers. Clarke smiles, that tight, fond smile, over her shoulder at him and then clambers onto the bed and wriggles under the blankets, leaving room for Bellamy to join her.

He does, evening out the pillows and tugging on the blankets to get more to cover him, because Clarke is a blanket hog and if he doesn’t preemptively protect himself, he’ll wake up cold and have to delicately retrieve his share from a grumpy Clarke. Bellamy settles back onto the pillows and Clarke reaches over him to turn out the bedside lamp, her hair brushing over Bellamy’s collarbone.

“Goodnight, Bellamy,” Clarke whispers as she lies back down, closer to him, her hand sliding up his shoulder as she starts rhythmically, slowly gathering and creasing the fabric of his shirt. It’s a drowsy, half aware motion, Bellamy thinks, like a cat kneading its bed, and he’s not sure Clarke knows she does it. Bellamy covers her hand and Clarke’s working fingers quiet under the warmth of his palm.

“Sleep well, Clarke.” If he turns his head, his nose is just tickled by Clarke’s hair and he can smell the soft smell of Arkadian shampoo. Clarke sighs and her breath gusts across his neck. Bellamy fights the hesitance to pull her closer for all of a moment before he gives in and works an arm around her back, draws Clarke into his side. An anxious alarm goes off, tenses his body and screams too much, too close, too selfish, but Clarke just lifts her head and rests it on the soft muscle where Bellamy’s shoulder meets his chest, her hand sliding to rest comfortably on his sternum. Bellamy relaxes into it and feels the softness of Clarke’s body, her breasts, her stomach, hips and thighs curled along his own.

There’s a part of him that wants to stay awake, lie here with Clarke in the darkness and force every detail into his memory. When the radiation comes, when he burns, he want this to be his last thought- of stillness and peace and Clarke.

“Bell-me,” Clarke murmurs, giving a sleepy, uncoordinated jerk against him and lifting a hand to his face. “You’re keeping me awake with all your thinking. Stop it.”

“Sorry,” Bellamy chuckles. “I’ll try to keep it down.”

“Good,” Clarke says, and tips her face up so she’s buried in his neck and Bellamy feels the edges of his consciousness prickle and curl down, the draw of sleep too much to resist. Clarke’s warmth and quiet breathing are the last things he knows.

When Bellamy wakes up, he’s shifted, as he often does asleep. Instead of lying on his back, he’s rolled onto his side and Clarke’s back is against the hollow of his chest. Bellamy realizes he’s draped across Clarke, an arm over the dip of her waist, their legs entangled so that Bellamy’s hips are flush against the curve of Clarke’s ass.

Bellamy closes his eyes and takes a breath, feels Clarke shift as well. Her breathing always goes deep and even right before she wakes up. Sure enough, a moment later, Clarke stretches against him.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “Hey, Bellamy.”

“Hey,” he says, nudging the back of her head with his nose. She sounds fuzzy, sleepy and warm and soft in all the ways he knows she tries to push away. He loves it here, in bed, just for him to hear and be gentle with. He can’t help twitching his fingers against her stomach, in part a tickle, in part just little hello.

Clarke hums and shifts, twisting a little like she wants to look back at him. “You sleep well?” Clarke whispers, her hand finding his and pressing it into her stomach, and Bellamy takes the invitation, rubs affectionate circles into her belly. Her skin is so soft, aside from the half inch scar, right in the middle above her bellybutton, where she pressed into Indra’s pike to make a point. Bellamy thumbs at the scar absently, feeling the difference between the stiff scar tissue and soft give of the rest of Clarke’s skin.

“Completely out,” Bellamy says and Clarke mmms in response and shifts a little, burrowing back deeper into his chest and her shifting slides Bellamy’s hand lower, makes his fingers brush the jut of her hip bone. Her scent fills his nose; shampoo, and earth and sweat, and the press of her body against his, his fingers on her hip, the soft cocoon and safety of Clarke’s bed and early morning sleepiness all combine to become too much. Bellamy’s cock twitches and begins to fill.

“Sorry,” he whispers, tucking his face into Clarke’s hair. “Ignore that.”

It’s not that shocking that he gets hard with Clarke so close and warm and sweet with him, nor does he think Clarke’s going to be scandalized. It’s just them, and a little morning wood isn’t anything new. Sure, Bellamy can’t think of anything he wants more than to wake Clarke up with slow kisses and his hands sliding over her skin, getting her wet and ready and wanting; than spending a morning taking her apart so that he learns the break of her voice and the way the sweat on her forehead tastes. But there isn’t a lot of time for that at the end of the world, and Bellamy still isn’t sure Clarke wants that from him, so this, warm sleepy wake ups and Clarke soft and sweet with him, is a photo-finish second.

Bellamy shifts his hips back so his cock won’t press into Clarke and keeps his hand soothing on her stomach. But Clarke turns her head, eyes a little hazy with sleep and gives him a slow smile. “It’s alright,” she whispers. “Come back.”

Her voice makes Bellamy’s stomach warm, something curl tight in him and his cock twitches again. It’s too early to think better of it, so Bellamy lets his body relax and his hips rock a little against Clarke’s body. It’s just a little pressure, just feels quiet and good and right when Clarke makes a pleased sound and nestles back against him. Clarke tugs on his arm so Bellamy has to rise up on his elbow beneath him and she twists her back so she’s looking up at him.

“Hey,” she says, face so open. “You’re really warm.” She nuzzles at his jaw, drags her cheek and chin against his, her skin soft over Bellamy’s stubble.

Bellamy huffs softly and his hips push forward again, involuntary. He wants to apologize but it makes Clarke hum, leaves a whisper of vibration against his skin. “S’okay,” Clarke murmurs like she’s reading his mind. At this point he wouldn’t be surprised if she could. “We can just- it’s okay.”

It’s a still half asleep, preemptive absolutions- for their past, for what they’ll do in the name of survival, for taking some comfort from each other when it’s too early for their better judgement to get in the way. There’s an ache for that comfort in Bellamy’s chest and stomach, a need to be close to Clarke like this, and he can’t help himself. He rocks his hips forward again and his groan is barely more than a harsh exhale at the feeling of Clarke’s body against his cock.

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees and her hand cups his cheek. “You got it, Bellamy.”

Bellamy tucks his nose down into Clarke’s shoulder and closes his eyes. Clarke is so soft, feels so good to move against lazily, unrushed and unworried about getting anywhere too fast. He squeezes her stomach gently, and his fingers itch immediately. He slides them lower on her stomach and plucks at the band of Clarke’s panties, dips his fingers underneath so he can just feel the thatch of hair above her cunt.

“Can I, for you?” He mumbles and Clarke’s breath stutters.

“Yes,” she decides, voice husky. She pushes her hips back on his next roll forward and god, it’s two layers of cotton between their skin, but Bellamy can feel how warm she is, how smooth her skin would be. It’s at once the easiest and most thrilling thing to slide his hand down into Clarke’s underwear and cup her cunt. She’s hot on his fingers, delicate skin cupped in his hand and Clarke’s slow, deep inhale drives Bellamy a little wild. He reigns himself in, with effort, and runs his nose up her neck to rest his mouth against her ear, crooks his fingers carefully so he can spread her labia.

Clarke isn’t wet, not yet, but Bellamy touches her gently, finds her clit and sets his thumb against it in slow circles so that her stomach muscles jump. “God,” Bellamy murmurs at the first brush of her slick against his fingers. His hips stutter into her and he can’t help but use the hand he has on her cunt to urge her back against him a little more so he can grind against her.

“Bellamy,” Clarke whispers, and she arches, trying to get closer to his cock and hand all at once. “Let me turn over.”

Bellamy takes a breath and gives her space, even though he can hardly think anything other than Clarke, and close, and fuck. Clarke flips fully onto her back and then draws Bellamy back in, not over her but right back into her side, like Bellamy pulled her close the night before. “Like, this,” Clarke says turning her face into his so their foreheads touch, her lips a whisper from his own. “So I can touch you too.”

“Yeah, uh, yeah,” Bellamy agrees and rucks up his shirt so that Clarke’s fingers, running down his body brush his stomach and make him twitch. Clarke’s smile is slow and sweet and she lingers there for a moment, brushing her knuckles and then her nails, ever so slightly, against his stomach.

“That’s nice?” Clarke whispers, and god, her lips are so close to his. Bellamy nods and it makes their noses brush.

“I like it. Your hands, the way you touch me.” It feels like a lot to cop to and Bellamy has to look away from Clarke’s blue eyes and tuck his face into her neck as he gets his fingers back into her panties. God, she’s gotten wetter and Bellamy’s fingers slide easily over her, slip easily onto her clit as he settles them there.

“Oh,” Clarke murmurs and her nails scrabble momentarily against his stomach before she seems to remember what she wanted and she fights her hand into his boxers. “Oh, Bellamy,” Clarke breathes as she curls her hand around his cock. She slides her hand down to the base of his cock and then gives him a slow, sure squeeze all the way back up to the tip and Bellamy jerks against her. When she repeats the motion, her fingers are sticky and Bellamy knows his cock must be wet at the tip with precum.

“Just like that,” he can’t help but tell Clarke as she keeps her hand steady on him. “That feels good.”

Clarke hums and lifts her head, nosing at him. “Come back,” she whispers and Bellamy lifts his head back up so he can watch her face, watch the way her eyebrows crease and her lips part when he rubs her clit with slow, sweet passes of two fingers. With Bellamy’s head on the pillow next to her again, Clarke rolls her head so that she can look at him again, and her breath fans against his mouth.

Fuck, Bellamy wants to kiss her, starts to lean in, but loses his courage at the last second and kisses the corner of her mouth instead, unsure exactly where the line is here. Clarke’s breath hitches and her whole body shivers.

“Would you-” Clarke starts and Bellamy butts at her temple to get her to keep talking. “Finger fuck me,” Clarke says, her voice barely there. “I want to feel it.”

“Shit,” Bellamy breathes and has to reach down to cover her hand with his own. He tightens her fist and resets her pace, a little faster, with a twist at the head of his cock that causes a hot tug in his stomach. Clarke’s eyes drop to their hands, going dark. “Yeah, I’ll finger you, Clarke. Just keep going like that, huh?”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. “Ok, Bellamy.”

“Hips,” Bellamy murmurs and Clarke frowns at him for a moment before she realizes what he’s asking and rolls her hips up so Bellamy can push her underwear off.

“No, no, you too,” Clarke insists, bossy even here, even in this quiet moment between them, and Bellamy rolls his eyes at her as he gets his boxers down over her moving hand and cock.

“Better?” he asks and Clarke nods, eyes fixed once more on his cock in her hand. It’s a good sight, Bellamy thinks, following her gaze, her hand pale on his cock, which is flushed dark and red.

Bellamy’s fingers look good on Clarke too, he thinks. Thick and blunt against her pretty skin and Clarke rocks a little restlessly against him, whines when Bellamy gets stuck working her clit because it just feels so good under his fingers.

“I want- I want,” Clarke begs and Bellamy hums, slides his fingers lower and pushes two into her. Clarke’s gasp is harsh and a little wild and Bellamy swears under his breath. Fuck, she’s tight, but so wet, so hot on his fingers, that he pushes them into her up to the last knuckle and stills there. Clarke noses at his face, her eyes clenched shut, her whole body shivering and Bellamy’s not sure if it’s from the chill in the air without their blankets or because Clarke’s feeling overwhelmed.

“This okay?” he whispers and Clarke hones in on his voice, her lips brushing against his nose, against the scar on his upper lip.

“It’s good. It’s, It’s not enough,” she whispers and opens her eyes. She looks at him and then her eyes drop, familiarly, to his lips. Her own part but at the last second she rolls her head away and Bellamy growls, twists his fingers and rocks his hand against her.

“Oh, fuck,” Clarke moans, her hand twitching on his cock. “Yes.”

Clarke feels good on his fingers and Bellamy works her up slow, figures out she likes a tight, focused rock of his fingers. She likes when he taps them up against her and then rubs, hard and a little mean until her legs start to shake and he backs off again. He grounds her with his free hand, presses her hip down on the mattress as Clarke keeps her rhythm on his cock and god, her hand is so good, Bellamy’s not sure how long he can keep himself from coming when her palm is at once smooth and rough with small callouses. He feels a tightness in the backs of his legs and his stomach, coiling at the base of his spine.

“Clarke,” he pants into her neck and Clarke rolls her head, eyes closed, lost to the feeling of his body along hers. “Look at me,” he manages and Clarke opens her eyes. They’re dark, her pupils blown and her smile is a little slow as it curls her lips.

“You got it,” Clarke whispers, draws him closer, angles his cock so that it’s over her stomach and Bellamy looks down at the way her hand is tight around him, is slick with his precum and shit, he can’t take it, that it’s Clarke’s hand jerking him off.

“Shit. Shit,” Bellamy groans and comes, fits his hand back over Clarke’s to guide her to focus on the head of his cock as he shivers through it. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Clarke echoes and when he looks back up at her, she’s also watching their hands on his cock. “God, I need,” Clarke whines and snakes her free hand through their bodies to land on her clit. “Yes,” she moans and Bellamy feels her cunt get tighter, wetter on his fingers.

“Yeah, Clarke,” he murmurs. “Rub your clit, make yourself come.”

“God,” Clarke whimpers and Bellamy gives her a third finger and grinds up into her so that Clarke is arching and crying out. “Oh, please,” she gasps. “Please, Bellamy, would you kiss-”

Bellamy doesn’t even wait for her to finish the thought, surges up as he fingers fuck into her and Clarke rubs fast, hard circles into her clit to finally, fucking finally, kiss her.

Clarke whines desperate into his mouth and kisses him back, and for all that it comes with both of them focused on making her come, there’s a sweetness to it, a gentleness that Bellamy thinks could only exist between them.

Clarke gasps once more and then her whole body locks up and her cunt clenches on his fingers. She whines, almost a relieved sound and her body goes limp against his, even as she rides out her orgasm. Bellamy slows his fingers, keeps them in her but just strokes at her, soothes her as she comes down. He lets her mouth go and studies her face- her flushed cheeks, red-kissed mouth and closed eyes. She’s beautiful and Bellamy’s heart aches at the thought that she might never grow old, never grow into her beauty.

He eases his fingers from inside her and Clarke opens her eyes, just a crack. “Hey,” she whispers. “What are you doing all the way over there?”

“I’m right here,” Bellamy tells her, amused in spite of himself and runs his nose down the bridge of hers.

“Too far,” Clarke whispers and tilts her chin up so that she catches his lips. Bellamy sighs against her mouth and settles, drawing Clarke onto her side so he can keep kissing her.

“What time do you think it is?” Clarke asks against his mouth, not breaking far enough away to really expect an answer.

“Early still,” Bellamy decides, only because it feels like this isn’t the end to this moment. Here, bedded down and with sweat cooling on their bodies, it will always be too early to go out and face the day.

Clarke breaks the press of their lips to study him for a moment. She pushes his curls off his forehead and searches his eyes. “Okay,” she whispers, leaning back in. “A little more of this and then we go save the world.”