This list will be updated as I post occasionally so you can navigate my page easily! I'll try to start doing requests if anyone is interested, just lmk :)
☆ = Smut
The 100 ☆࿐ Bellamy Blake x fem reader
Home Grown (Birthday Fic) ☆
Sugar on My Tongue (12 Days of Christmas) ☆
The Sweetest Thing (12 Days of Christmas)
I Told You So (12 Days of Christmas)
White Christmas (12 Days of Christmas)
Midnight Rendevouz (12 Days of Christmas) ☆
Flashing Lights (12 Days of Christmas)
Are We Still Friends? Pt.1 (12 Days of Christmas)
Are We Still Friends? Pt.2 (12 Days of Christmas)
Baby It's Cold Outside (12 Days of Christmas) ☆
Under The Mistletoe (12 Days of Christmas)
Dick the Halls (12 Days of Christmas) ☆
All I Want For Christmas Is You (12 Days of Christmas)
Synopsis: Christmas morning with Bellamy in Arkadia
Warnings: none, fluff
Notes: It’s Day 12 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! Merry Christmas!!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! It's been so fun writing these!! Sorry this one's a little short, I was a little short on time lol, but I hope everyone has a great day!
Word Count: 1.5k
You wake slowly, not to an alarm or distant shouts or the sharp edge of urgency that usually pulls you out of sleep, but to quiet. The kind that feels deliberate. Heavy. Almost sacred.
For a few seconds you don’t open your eyes. You just lie there, cocooned in warmth, aware of the faint chill in the air beyond the blankets and the soft rise and fall of your own breathing. Christmas. The word drifts lazily through your mind, still half-formed, like a dream you haven’t quite let go of yet.
Then your hand moves.
It reaches instinctively across the mattress, fingers searching for familiar heat—Bellamy’s shoulder, his arm, the curve of his back you’ve memorized in the dark. You expect resistance. You expect skin.
Your hand meets nothing.
The sheets beside you are cool. Undisturbed.
Your stomach drops.
It’s immediate and sharp, a reflex you hate that you haven’t unlearned yet. Your heart kicks up, a spike of something close to panic threading through the sleepy haze. For a split second your mind fills in the worst without permission— he’s gone, something’s wrong, there’s a crisis, there’s never just peace—
You sit up slightly, blinking, your chest tight.
And then the door creaks open.
Bellamy steps inside, and the tension snaps like a pulled thread.
He’s balancing a tray in both arms, brows furrowed in intense concentration, jaw set the way it gets when he’s trying very hard not to mess something up. One of the cups wobbles dangerously as he nudges the door shut with his foot.
“Shit—” he hisses under his breath, freezing mid-step as the cup tips just enough to threaten disaster.
You let out a soft laugh before you can stop yourself.
It’s quiet, unguarded, still rough with sleep.
Bellamy’s head snaps up, eyes flying straight to you. For a second he looks caught, like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. Then he sucks his teeth, grimacing slightly.
“Sorry,” he whispers, immediately. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Something in your chest loosens at the sound of his voice— low, careful, warm. The fear you’d felt a moment ago feels almost embarrassing now, dissolving into fondness.
“It’s okay,” you murmur, pushing yourself up against the pillows. “Where have you been?”
He finally makes it to the bed, setting the tray down carefully between you, like it’s something precious. Your eyes drop to it automatically, taking it in piece by piece.
Scrambled eggs, still steaming slightly. Bacon, crisp and uneven in that way that tells you it was cooked with attention rather than expertise. Fresh fruit— actual fresh fruit— bright slices arranged in a way that feels deliberate, like he wanted it to look nice. You recognize it all immediately. Garden-grown. Farm-collected. Things that took time and effort and early-morning cold to gather.
There’s a cup of water, too, clear and full.
Your throat tightens before you can help it.
“I—” you start, then stop, your voice catching. “Bellamy…”
He’s watching you closely, like he’s bracing for something. Instead of speaking, he leans down and presses his mouth to yours.
It’s a long kiss. Unrushed. Sweet in the way that feels intentional, like he’s pouring something unsaid into it. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek, grounding you fully in the moment.
“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs against your lips when he finally pulls back.
You smile, soft and a little stunned. “Merry Christmas.”
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say quietly, gesturing to the tray, though your fingers hover near it like you’re afraid it might disappear.
He shrugs, but there’s something shy in it. Something almost vulnerable. “I know. I just… wanted to do something nice. Something special. It’s Christmas.”
The simplicity of it hits harder than any grand gesture ever could.
You feel yourself melt, warmth blooming low in your chest, spreading outward until it makes your limbs heavy and your heart ache in the best possible way. Without thinking, you reach for him, tugging him closer until he’s leaning over you again.
You kiss him slowly this time, savoring it— soft, sweet, full of everything you don’t say out loud.
And for once, nothing else matters.
You eat together slowly, knees brushing beneath the blanket, the tray balanced precariously between you like neither of you wants to disturb the moment by moving too much. The food tastes better than it has any right to— simple, warm, made with care— and you realize halfway through that it’s not just hunger that makes it feel indulgent. It’s the fact that Bellamy keeps watching you while you eat, like he’s checking in, like he needs to see you enjoy it for it to count.
You talk about nothing and everything. About how quiet the camp feels. About how strange it is to wake up without a plan or an order or a looming threat. Bellamy jokes about nearly burning the bacon, admits he almost woke half the building when the pan slipped, and you laugh harder than the story deserves because you love the sound of his voice when he’s relaxed. When he smiles like this— soft, unguarded— you think you could memorize it.
For once, your mind isn’t racing ahead. It’s here. Anchored.
By the time the plates are empty and the fruit is gone, you’re full in that deep, contented way that has nothing to do with food. Bellamy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then sets the tray aside. You notice the way he rubs his palms against his pants, once, then again.
It’s subtle. But you know him.
Your chest tightens with curiosity as he shifts his weight, glancing briefly toward the far side of the bed like he’s checking that something is still where he left it. When he looks back at you, there’s something different in his eyes— nervous energy humming just beneath the surface.
He reaches just beyond the mattress and pulls out a small box.
It’s nothing fancy. Simple. Worn at the edges, like it’s been handled more than once. He holds it out toward you with both hands, offering it like something fragile.
“What’s this?” you ask softly, though you already know. Your heart is already thudding faster, anticipation blooming warm and bright in your chest.
“Merry Christmas,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. He nods once. “Open it.”
Your fingers feel clumsy as you take the box from him. You don’t know why— you’ve opened far more important things under far worse circumstances— but your hands fumble slightly with the lid. Bellamy watches every movement like it matters.
When you finally lift it open, your breath catches.
Inside rests a necklace. Handmade— clearly so, but beautifully. A delicate chain, carefully shaped, leading down to a pendant with a jagged green stone fixed at its center. The color is deep and rich, catching the light in a way that makes it seem alive. It’s earthy. Grounded. Somehow… you.
You stare at it, then up at him, eyes wide.
“Bellamy,” you breathe. “It’s beautiful— how did you—how— I…”
Your words tangle, useless and insufficient.
He exhales, relieved in a way that makes your chest ache. “I made it,” he says quietly. “Found the stone on one of my trips out of Arkadia. I thought…” He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I thought it should be something. For you.”
Something in your throat tightens painfully.
“You made this,” you repeat, like you need to hear it again.
He nods. “Yeah.”
You don’t know how to thank him properly. There aren’t words big enough for the care wrapped up in something so small, so intentional. All you can manage is the truth, spilling out before you can overthink it.
“I love it,” you say softly. Then, quieter still, “And I love you.”
His breath stutters, just barely.
You don’t give either of you time to sit in it. You lean forward and kiss him— deep, full, everything you didn’t say pressed into the warmth of his mouth. His hands come up instinctively, anchoring you, holding you like he always does when he wants to make sure you’re real.
When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling. You open your eyes to find him already looking at you.
“I love you,” he says, voice steady but thick with feeling. “More than I thought it was possible to love someone.”
A light laugh escapes you, soft and disbelieving, because somehow you know exactly what he means. “I feel the same way.”
You hesitate, then smile. “I’ve got your gift for you later,” you add, teasing just a little. “Trust me— it’s something you’re going to love.”
His smile widens, warm and easy. Content.
And as the quiet settles back around you, wrapped in shared warmth and soft light, you think that this— this stillness, this love— is exactly what Christmas is supposed to feel like.
Synopsis: You and Bellamy have been secretly dating. You didn’t know how to tell the others, scared of their reactions. When you guys show up to the friend groups Christmas Eve party trying to act as nothing more than friends, they want to play childish party games. You and Bellamy end up in a cramped closet together for 7 minutes with your friends only 15 feet from the other side of the door…
Notes: It’s Day 11 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! Merry Christmas Eve!!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
Word Count: 2.3k
Borders: @chateaubarnes
The Christmas Eve party was already loud by the time you and Bellamy slipped through the door, half-snow dusted and half already laughing at something he’d whispered behind you. The house was glowing— soft gold lights tangled in garland and that cheap tinsel Monty insisted looked “tastefully festive.” Your friends were scatter-brained between the kitchen, the living room, and the back porch, but the second you walked in, Bellamy’s hand slid along the small of your back like it belonged there.
He didn’t move it.
And you didn’t step away.
You told yourself it was because the room was crowded. He was warm. You were cold. You were best friends. Everybody knew you two were a little touchy, a little clingy, always orbiting the same three inches of space— but they didn’t know you were dating. They weren’t supposed to know.
But God, you were standing close tonight— close enough that Octavia raised one eyebrow over her drink and Raven smirked like she knew something you didn’t.
Bellamy leaned down so only you could hear. “Relax. They’re drunk. They’re not paying attention.”
But his hand stayed on you. And you didn’t want it anywhere else.
A couple drinks in— well, more than a couple— you were giggly, warm, and way too aware of how Bellamy was laughing at everything you said. Every time his shoulder brushed yours, your stomach flipped, and every time you got too close, he looked at you like he’d forget you were supposed to be keeping a secret.
When Monty dumped himself into the middle of the living room and clapped his hands, announcing, “Circle time! Childish Christmas games, let’s go!” you groaned. Loudly.
“Oh no,” you muttered as people started plopping down on pillows and the carpet. “Oh no, no, no.”
Bellamy leaned in behind you, chin briefly brushing your shoulder. “What, afraid of losing?”
“Afraid of the weird shit these people call fun,” you corrected.
You were halfway to sitting when Bellamy’s hand suddenly found your wrist. He tugged you gently toward the hallway.
“Hey— where are you—?”
He stopped just inside an empty dining room, the party noise muffled behind you. His face was flushed from the alcohol, sure, but his eyes were clear— focused entirely on you.
“Just— before we start,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “If they are trying to do kissing games or whatever… I’m not doing anything with anyone else.”
You blinked. “Bellamy, I didn’t ask you to—”
“I know.” He shrugged, a tiny smile tugging one corner of his mouth. “I don’t want to kiss anyone else. Even if it’s for a stupid game or because we’re supposed to keep us secret for now.”
Your heart kicked hard enough you felt it in your fingertips.
“Hurry up, lovebirds!” Jasper yelled from the living room. You nearly choked.
I stepped back, my eyes widening. “Hey! We are not—We’re not—”
“Shut up,” he hissed while pushing you back toward the circle. He laughed, that soft, secret one he only ever gave you.
They settled on an Evil Spin-the-Bottle-7-Minutes-in-Heaven monstrosity game. Whatever that means.
The game started with a dramatic spin from Harper, then Monty’s overconfident dare, then Raven threatening to rig the bottle to hit Murphy on purpose. Everyone was loud, messy, and thriving.
Then Jasper landed on dare.
“Dare!” he announced proudly.
He should not have.
Within seconds, Octavia and Monty had assembled a concoction so foul it should’ve been illegal—pickle juice, eggnog, leftover hot chocolate, some kind of barbecue seasoning, and, for a finishing touch, an olive bobbing at the surface like a drowned victim.
“Bottoms up!” Monty cheered.
Jasper took one smell, gagged, and everyone lost their minds. You clutched Bellamy’s arm, laughing so hard your stomach hurt.
But when Jasper actually drank it and immediately ran to the sink, you sobered.
Fast.
“Nope,” you whispered, shaking your head as the bottle was passed to you. “No dares. Absolutely not.”
Bellamy leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear so no one else could hear:
“Then don’t pick dare.”
Easy for him to say.
Because there were definitely people you did not want to be locked in a tiny closet with for seven minutes.
Murphy was sitting directly across from you.
Already smirking.
And the bottle was in your hands.
Your palms were sweating as you reached for the bottle. Murphy was watching you like a cat who’d found a cornered mouse, which made your stomach drop straight through the floor. Dare was off the table. Absolutely not. Never again after Jasper’s… soup.
So you inhaled, spun the bottle, and prayed.
The room seemed to tilt as the bottle whirred. Slowing. Slowing.
It clicked past Monty. Past Raven. Past Clarke.
And stopped.
Pointed directly at Bellamy Blake.
Your relief was so obvious that Harper snorted into her drink. You didn’t care. The warmth rushing through you drowned out everything— embarrassment, nerves, fear of getting caught in your secret relationship.
Bellamy met your eyes.
His were already dark with something you knew too well.
“Seven minutes,” Monty announced gleefully. “Closet rules apply. No switching, no sneaking out, no complaining.”
Bellamy stood first. His fingertips brushed yours like a promise as the two of you crossed the room, trying not to look too eager. The closet on the far side of the living room was cramped, old, and absolutely not meant for two people.
The second the door closed behind you, muffling the chatter of your friends—
Bellamy kissed you.
Not gentle or cautious, it was a hungry, breath-stealing kiss that made your knees almost give out. You let out a shocked little laugh against his mouth, your hands instinctively grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.
“Bellamy—” you whispered.
“They’ll hear,” you reminded him, breathless.
He kissed the corner of your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear. “Not if we’re quiet,” he murmurs.
Warmth pooled in your lower stomach and your cheeks turned a deep shade of red as he started to kiss you on the lips again. Could you really do this in the closet with your friends less than twenty feet away? Bellamy’s strong hand slipped into your christmas pajama pants to cup your ass and your question was immediately.
You definitely could do this with your friends less than twenty feet away.
“Are you sure?” you breathe a whisper and he responds with the slight nod of his head.
He pulls your body closer to his, pressing your fronts together and you could feel his already bulging erection under his soft pajama pants. You thrust your hips forward just a little bit, pressing on his cock through the fabric and his mouth opened, temporarily blocking the kiss with a heavy exhale of breath.
Fast thoughts ran through your head. Bellamy couldn’t go back out of the closet with a hard on like that, then they’d definitely know something was up.
You would have fixed the problem yourself, but Bellamy was already two steps ahead as he broke the kiss to begin lowering you both to the floor. The sheer amount of space was an issue in itself, not even accounting for the fact that you needed to keep quiet.
As both of your knees hit the floor that was surprisingly empty, save for a stack of towels, and you set your butt on the floor, Bellamy landing right in front of you on his knees. You met for another rushed and hot kiss, being careful to not make too much noise as your lips slot against each other, tongues fighting for dominance.
The movement was swift. Bellamy laid you down and tugged your pants halfway down your thighs and slid his hand down to your now sopping core. His fingers swiped along the length of your core and you shuddered a breath. When one of his fingers breached the entrance, you braced for the bruising pace he was going to start, but his fingers were gone before he even reached knuckle deep.
He brought his glistening fingers, wet from your slick, up to his mouth and sucked them clean, his eyes sliding closed for a moment. You wanted to moan out right then and there at his dirty display but you knew that wouldn't bode well.
You watched as he slid his pants and boxers down just enough to release his springing erection already leaking with precum. Quickly, Bellamy grabs both of your legs with strong hands and hikes them over one shoulder, the position being the best for the limited space provided. You were dripping for him, clenching around nothing while he readied himself.
He plants a kiss to your calf and positions himself at your entrance and you feel his tip slide through the wetness between your legs. You give Bellamy a small nod as to proceed and he starts pushing in.
Neither of you make a noise, both of your jaws becoming slack at the feeling of him sheathing himself in you inch by inch. You watch with lidded eyes as his roll into the back of his skull, your own threatening to squeeze shut in order to keep quiet.
After a moment, he slowly pulls all the way out, before pushing back in, his hands gripping your legs as he grounds himself, watching the space where your bodies connect.
He thrust back in— completely— and you couldn’t contain the small yelp that barely escaped your mouth. Your eyes widened and you both stopped, listening to see if the talking out in the other room had ceased— if they’d heard. When the talking never stopped, putting you both in the clear, Bellamy clamps a hand over your mouth.
“‘Can’t let that happen again,” he whispers in the confined space, the sound meeting your ears clearly. You give him a nod, but he keeps his hand planted there, unmoving.
Without warning, he thrusts forward again, effectively taking the breath from your lungs and your hand flies up to grip his wrist, desperate to do anything to ground yourself in the moment.
His pace speeds up quickly and you find yourself grateful that the layer of fabric from his pants is guarding the space between your meeting flesh. Had it not been there, everyone within a thirty foot radius could hear the slapping of skin in that closet.
Tears built up in your eyes, threatening to spill over as his fast and bruising pace began to morph into sloppy and erratic strokes.
You wished you could cry out or get more air in through your mouth but the pressure of his hand was steady and the slight burning in your lungs sending waves of pleasure pooling in your lower stomach.
Right when you feel that quickly tightening knot forming in your abdomen, Bellamy places a hand right over it and pushes down, creating a beautiful pressure.
The knot tightens so fast, you feel it snap and release a tidal wave of pleasure over you as you ride through your orgasm. Your body shakes from the fast release, and Bellamy pulls out fast, leaving you with a sudden sense of emptiness.
Quickly, in your post orgasm bliss, you tug him to his feet and sit up, taking his hard cock into your mouth, sucking as much of it in as you can. Now it’s his turn to clamp his hand to his own mouth to keep in his noises.
You only feel his tip poke at the back of your mouth twice before he’s spilling all of his contents down your throat in hot, salty, spurts. You swallow all of it, savoring every last drop of his pleasure, being careful not to leave a mess behind.
When he’s completely spent and empty, you feel his cock start to soften and you release it from your mouth with a quiet pop.
For a few moments, your eyes meet in clouded disbelief and bliss. You just had mindblowing sex in like five minutes— in a closet… with your friends… less than fifteen feet from the door…
“Thirty seconds!”
Like everything is coming back all at once, your eyes widen in panic in unison at Octavia’s yell.
There were thirty seconds left.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, scrambling to straighten your shirt and pull up your pants. Bellamy was doing the same, pulling up his pants and patting his pockets like he’d forgotten how clothes worked.
“Think we’re good?” he asked, trying to flatten his hair. It just stuck up worse.
Before you could answer—
“TIME’S UP!” Octavia bellowed from the other side of the door.
You and Bellamy exchanged a look— half terrified, half laughing, half still trying to remember how legs functioned. His eyes flickered down to your lips and his eyes widened even more than you thought possible, he quickly swiped his thumb roughly over your bottom lip, his finger coming away with a bit of his cum that must have dribbled from your mouth.
He looked panicked like he didn't know what to do with it on him, so in a swift movement you yanked his hand to your face and licked it off, not thinking much of the action.
You took one last frantic swipe at your face, inhaled deeply, and opened the door, hoping that they wouldn’t notice your swollen lips, burning cheeks, and messy appearances.
You stepped out and the living room went silent.
Everyone was staring at you.
Octavia’s mouth dropped open. Raven clapped a hand over her lips. Clarke looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh. Miller choked on the drink he was nursing off to the side. Monty and Jasper immediately fist-bumped, muttering, “Called it.”
You blinked at them all. “What? Do I—” You swiped your cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”
Synopsis: You and Bellamy visit an art museum during the holidays.
Warnings: none, fluff
Notes: It’s Day 10 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
PS: Im not an art museum hater lol. I am an art major. However, I do SOMETIMES find contemporary art to be a little fucking stupid... Sorry...
Word Count: 500
Borders: @estrelinha-s
The museum is quiet, wrapped in soft holiday decorations— garlands along banisters, wreaths on doors, tiny string lights twinkling around plaques that explain centuries-old art. You hold Bellamy’s hand as you walk, your boots clicking softly against the polished floors.
He slows when you enter the contemporary art wing, staring at a giant white canvas with one single red line down the middle.
He squints. “Okay, but like… I could totally do that.”
You choke on a laugh. “Bell.”
“No, seriously.” He gestures dramatically at the canvas. “Give me some red paint and ten minutes— and boom. I’m an artist.”
You smack his arm lightly. “It would take you ten minutes to figure out which way is the right way to orient the canvas.”
He gives you a look. “It can go any way, right? Then I literally just have to draw a line.”
“A straight line,” you remind him.
He pauses.
“…Well. Right.”
You burst out laughing, the sound echoing lightly off the gallery walls. Your hands clapped to your mouth in an effort to stop the already escaped noise. They failed. Bellamy grins proudly, like making you laugh this hard is the only art he really cares about.
You walk deeper into the exhibits, side by side, occasionally stopping so he can point at something confusing and mutter, “I could do that,” or so you can explain a piece he definitely does not understand. His commentary is terrible, hilarious, and very, very him.
Eventually, you’re both leaning in a doorway, still laughing about whatever sarcastic thing he just whispered in your ear about a sculpture made entirely of tangled wire. You rest your hand on his chest to steady yourself, still breathless with amusement.
Then you look up.
And your laughter stops.
“Bellamy…” you murmur.
He follows your gaze. There, hanging in the perfect center of the doorway, tied with red ribbon and glowing softly under a nearby light, is a sprig of mistletoe.
“Oh,” he says— like he was definitely not expecting that.
Your heart stutters.
His smile slowly curls at the corner, soft and warm. “Huh. Museum’s got good taste.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re already stepping closer— or maybe he’s pulling you in, because his hands are already settling around your waist like they belong there.
“You know the rules,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” you whisper back, smiling. “I do.”
Bellamy leans down and kisses you—gentle, warm, lingering just enough to make the world around you blur into soft glowing lights and quiet echoes. It’s sweet and soft and perfect, the kind of kiss that makes your cheeks warm even in a cold hallway.
When he pulls back, he brushes his nose lightly against yours. “We should come to museums more often.”
You laugh softly, looping your arms around his neck. “Why? For the art or the mistletoe?”
He pretends to think. “Definitely not the art.”
You kiss him again anyway— under glowing lights, surrounded by art, right where the museum’s holiday magic caught you.
Synopsis: You get assigned to go on a recon mission with Bellamy, the guy you've hated since landing on the ground. Things take a turn when a blizzard passes by and you you get snowed in, forced to stay the night in the cold bunker together. After you finally tell him why you dont like him, Bellamy says he thinks its an excuse. You say you don't want him. He tells you to prove it.
Warnings: smut, enemies to lovers, piv, rough sex, mdni
Notes: It’s Day 9 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy! This is a long one!
Word Count: 5.7k
The rover shudders as Bellamy cuts the engine, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the low mechanical growl of the ride. Snow dusts the windshield in soft, lazy flakes, already sticking where the heat from the engine had been moments ago.
“Well,” Bellamy says, glancing out at the wall of trees ahead, “this is as close as we’re getting.”
You unclip your harness a little harder than necessary. Of course he’d say it like that. Like the whole thing was obvious and you were the idiot for expecting anything else.
“Great,” you mutter. “Love a hike through a frozen forest. Really adds to the charm of possibly dying.”
He snorts, opening his door. “You complain like this on every mission, or am I just special?”
You shoot him a look as you follow him out, boots crunching immediately into packed snow. The cold slaps you in the face, sharp and unkind, seeping into every gap in your gear. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, jaw already tense.
“Trust me,” you say, slinging your pack higher on your shoulder, “you’re not special. You’re just… loud about being annoying.”
Bellamy pauses, turning slowly, one eyebrow lifting. That stupid, infuriating expression he always wore when he thought he was winning something.
“Wow,” he says.
You brush past him.
The bunker entrance is half-buried, concrete jutting out from the snow like a scar in the earth. From a distance, it looks promising— intact door, no obvious structural damage, no signs of collapse. The kind of place that makes command optimistic and sends you out with someone you can’t stand.
You can feel Bellamy’s eyes on your back as you approach, and the awareness sets your nerves on edge. You hate that he watches. Hate that he always seems to notice things. Hate that despite being a prick, he’s competent— worse, reliable.
“Tracks,” he says, crouching near the entrance. “Old. Probably scavengers. Maybe months ago.”
You force yourself to focus, kneeling beside him and inspecting the markings. He’s right. That annoys you too.
“So the place isn’t untouched,” you say.
“Never said it was.” He straightens, looking up at the sky. The clouds are thickening, heavy and low, pressing down on the world. Snow is falling faster now. “But it’s not recently hit either. Still worth checking.”
You follow his gaze, a tight knot forming in your stomach. The light is already dimmer than it should be for this time of day.
“We’re going to get snowed in,” you say flatly.
Bellamy looks back at you. “We’ve got a couple hours.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he agrees, calm as ever, “but sitting around arguing about it won’t make it better.”
You bite back a retort, pushing past him toward the door. The metal is cold beneath your gloves as you work the latch, the hinges groaning but holding.
Inside, the bunker smells stale— old air, dust, something metallic. Your flashlight beam cuts through the darkness, illuminating rows of shelves, most of them stripped bare. But not all.
“Holy shit,” you breathe, spotting sealed crates stacked against the far wall.
Bellamy’s already moving, inspecting labels. “Medical supplies. Rations. Some tech.”
You hate how impressed he sounds. Hate how a small, traitorous spark of relief flares in your chest.
“This could actually help,” you say quietly.
“Yeah,” he replies, softer now. “It could.”
The wind howls suddenly, loud enough that you both freeze. Snow slams against the bunker door, rattling it in its frame.
Your stomach drops.
“That’s not good,” you whisper.
Bellamy strides back to the entrance, trying the door. It resists— not fully blocked yet, but heavier than before.
“We finish fast,” he says. “Load what we can.”
Another gust hits, stronger this time, and the lights flicker as your flashlight beam shakes in your hand.
And then the door slams shut.
The sound echoes through the bunker, final and absolute.
You stare at it, heart pounding. “Tell me that didn’t just—”
Bellamy’s already moving, bracing his shoulder against the door and pushing. It doesn’t budge.
“Okay,” he says carefully. Too carefully. “That’s not ideal.”
Your breath comes out in a shaky laugh. “You said we had a couple hours.”
He shoots you a look. “You said we’d get snowed in. Congratulations.”
You sink down onto one of the crates, rubbing your face with your gloved hands. This is your nightmare. Trapped. Cold. And stuck with Bellamy Blake, of all people.
“This is my worst day,” you mutter.
Bellamy exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. For the first time, he doesn’t look smug. He looks… tired.
You swallow, staring at him longer than you mean to. For someone you dislike so much, he’s maddeningly steady in moments like this.
You hate that too.
He’s the first one to move.
“Radio,” he says, already shrugging his pack off and digging through it. “If we’re stuck, they need to know where.”
You push yourself up from the crate, numb fingers protesting as you fumble for your own walkie. “Assuming it works.”
“Doesn’t hurt to try.”
You flick the switch, the familiar hiss of static filling the bunker. It’s loud in the quiet space, sharp and uneven, like the air itself is tearing.
“Arkadia, this is—” You pause, correcting yourself. “—this is Unit Two. Do you copy?”
Static answers you.
Bellamy steps closer, leaning in like proximity alone might help. “Arkadia, come in. Supply run team at Grid Seven-Four. We’re at the bunker.”
The radio crackles, spitting noise back at you. You exchange a look— equal parts frustration and dread.
You try again. “We’re snowed in. Hatch is blocked. Repeat, snowed in.”
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the storm screaming through the walls.
Then— faintly— something cuts through.
“…—Two… do you—”
You stiffen. “I hear them.”
Bellamy grabs the radio, thumb pressing the button harder than necessary. “Arkadia, repeat last. You’re breaking up.”
The response comes in broken fragments, words swallowed by static and interference.
“…blizzard… heavy… visibility—”
You strain to listen, heart hammering. Bellamy glances at you, brows knit tight.
“…should… clear… morning—”
The signal dissolves into noise again.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I heard it.”
You raise the radio again. “Arkadia, confirm—did you say morning?”
Nothing.
The walkie emits one final burst of static before going dead.
You stare at it, then at Bellamy. “That’s it?”
“That’s all we’re getting,” he says. “Storm’s messing with the signal.”
You want to argue. Want more certainty than probably and should. But the reality is already pressing in from all sides.
“So we wait,” you say, flat.
Bellamy nods. “We wait the night. Check again at first light.”
The words the night settle heavily in your chest.
Silence settles between you, thick and heavy, broken only by the wind screaming outside and the quiet realization sinking in.
You’re snowed in.
Together.
You glance around the bunker again, really seeing it now through the lens of time instead of task. The concrete walls. The single room. The lack of insulation. The cold creeping in slowly, methodically, like it knows it has all the time in the world.
“Great,” you mutter. “Sleepover from hell.”
Bellamy ignores that, already moving toward the shelves again. “We need to conserve heat.”
As if on cue, you shiver.
The temperature is dropping fast now that the adrenaline has worn off. Your breath fogs faintly in front of your face. You rub your hands together, trying to generate some warmth, and immediately regret not bringing thicker gloves.
You start pulling down blankets, stacking them in a pile near the center of the bunker. Bellamy does the same, his movements efficient but quieter now.
“Candles,” he says, spotting a small crate near the back. He pries it open, relief flickering across his face. “Not much, but it’ll help.”
You watch as he lights one, the small flame flaring to life. The bunker shifts instantly— shadows dancing along the walls, the space feeling less abandoned, less hostile. You light a few more, spacing them out carefully.
The warmth is minimal, but it’s something.
You wrap a blanket around your shoulders, sinking down against the wall. The cold seeps through anyway, settling deep in your bones.
Bellamy sits across the room, his own blanket draped over his shoulders, candlelight carving sharp lines across his face. He looks different like this— less abrasive, more human and you hate that your brain notices.
Outside, the storm rages on, relentless and merciless.
The bunker goes quiet in a way that feels deliberate.
Not the storm— because the storm is still there, roaring above you, shaking the walls in low, distant rumbles— but the space between you and Bellamy. No movement. No talking. Just the occasional flicker of candlelight and the slow creep of cold seeping through concrete and bone alike.
You curl tighter into yourself in the far corner, knees drawn up, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like it might actually do something. It doesn’t. The cold finds you anyway, sneaking into the spaces between your ribs, settling deep in your joints.
You tell yourself you’re fine.
You tell yourself you’ve been colder. That this is nothing. That you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing you fold.
Your breath comes out in what feels like it should show up in small clouds. Your fingers ache. You shove them under your arms, jaw clenched.
Across the bunker, Bellamy shifts.
You don’t look at him. You don’t want to know if he’s watching. You don’t want to give him anything.
“This is stupid,” he says finally.
You stiffen. "What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious.” He sounds irritated now, like he’s been holding it in. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
He lets out a sharp breath. “You’re not fine. Stop being so damn proud and come over here. We share body heat. That’s how this works.”
You laugh softly, humorless. “I’d rather freeze.”
“That can be arranged,” he mutters.
You pull the blanket tighter and turn your face toward the wall, pretending the cold isn’t making your teeth ache, pretending your hands aren’t starting to tremble.
You hear him shift again. The scrape of fabric. The low sigh of frustration.
Then— betrayal.
Your teeth chatter, the sound sharp and unmistakable in the quiet space.
There’s a pause.
From across the room, Bellamy sucks his teeth.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters.
You hear him stand. You stay rigid, heart pounding, irritation flaring because you knew this would happen. You knew he wouldn’t let it go.
Footsteps approach. Close. Too close.
“Don’t,” you say, low and warning.
He ignores you.
Bellamy drops down beside you, close enough that your shoulder bumps his. Before you can react, he slides himself in your blanket and swings one side of his other blanket over you, draping another around your back and shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Your bodies are fully pressed together now— side to side, hip to thigh, shoulder to shoulder.
The warmth hits you immediately.
It’s impossible not to notice. It’s even harder to resist curling into it, but somehow you do.
Bellamy radiates heat, solid and steady, cutting through the cold in a way the blankets never could. Your muscles loosen before you can stop them, a soft, traitorous sigh slipping from your lips.
You huff instead, irritated at yourself. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” he says simply.
You don’t thank him. You refuse to acknowledge how much better this feels. You keep your gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The silence returns, but it’s different now— crowded, charged, filled with the awareness of him. Every rise and fall of his chest. Every shift of his weight against you. The steady warmth at your side.
You hate how comforting it is.
You exhale sharply, staring at the concrete floor. “Why do you even care?”
Bellamy tilts his head slightly, glancing down at you. “Because you’re part of my team.”
You scoff. “Could’ve fooled me.”
That earns you a quiet huff of amusement. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
You tense. “That’s never a good sign.”
He looks ahead again, voice thoughtful. “Why did you agree to this mission if you hate me so much?”
The question lands heavier than you expect.
You don’t answer right away.
The storm howls above you. The candle flame flickers.
“I don’t hate you,” you say finally.
He turns toward you, clearly surprised. “Could’ve sworn.”
You glare at the wall. “I said I don’t hate you. I just… really don’t like you.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “That’s comforting.”
“I’m serious.” You shift slightly, still careful not to pull away. “Everyone in Arkadia could use those supplies. Medical kits, blankets, food— especially in winter. That’s why I came. Not for you.”
He nods slowly, absorbing that. “Okay. Then why don’t you like me?”
You go still.
He watches you now, openly curious. Not defensive. Not mocking.
“I mean it,” he adds. “I’ve tried to figure it out. Never could.”
The warmth at your side feels suddenly heavier, more noticeable.
You swallow.
“Cause you're an arrogant, egotistical, control freak.”
He jerks his head back just a little bit in surprise at your words, “What? How?”
“I said what I said.” You sat unmoving, with a noncommittal shrug.
“No, you can't just say that and not give an explanation. Believe it or not, I’m actually trying to figure out why you think this and if I can fix it.”
You sit back, taking in his words.
For a moment, you consider brushing it off. Giving him something vague. Something easy. But the bunker is quiet, the storm relentless, and his warmth is still pressed into your side like a steady reminder that there’s nowhere to retreat to— not physically, not now.
So you tell the truth.
“It started when we first landed,” you say quietly.
Bellamy doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t move. He just listens.
“When everything was chaos. When no one knew what the hell we were doing, and everyone was scared out of their minds.” You stare straight ahead, candlelight blurring slightly as memories surface whether you want them to or not. “You stepped up fast. Took control. And everyone just… followed.”
You let out a slow breath. “At first, I thought it was impressive.”
He shifts beside you, almost imperceptibly.
“But then,” you continue, “I started seeing the rest of it.”
You glance at him briefly, then away again.
“The way you acted like nothing touched you. Like the ground couldn’t break you. Like consequences were optional.” Your jaw tightens. “You slept with half the camp. Girls throwing themselves at you like it was some kind of badge of honor. Like proximity to you meant safety, or power, or— hell, I don’t know— importance.”
Bellamy exhales softly through his nose, but he still doesn’t cut in.
“I never understood it,” you say. “I never wanted to.”
Your fingers curl into the blanket. “You looked selfish. Arrogant. Like you thought you were untouchable.”
His voice is low when he finally speaks. “That’s what you saw?”
“Yes,” you say immediately. “That’s what you showed.”
Silence stretches again, thicker now. You realized it felt nice to get this out.
You push on before you can second-guess yourself.
“Obviously you’re attractive,” you add. “Anyone with eyes could see that. But— It wasn’t just your looks—it was the way you carried yourself. Like you always had a plan. Like things bent around you instead of the other way around.” You huff quietly. “People gravitate toward that. Especially when they’re scared.”
Bellamy’s shoulder presses a fraction closer, though he still doesn’t touch you with his hands.
“But I didn’t,” you say. “That was probably the last thing I wanted.”
Your throat tightens, unexpected.
“And somehow,” you add, quieter now, “I was always near you anyway.”
He turns his head slightly. “Inner circle.”
“Yeah,” you say. “Command. Clarke. You. Me. Octavia.” You shake your head faintly. “Being close didn’t mean I liked you. It just meant I saw more.” You hesitate, then admit, “You watched me a lot.”
Bellamy stiffens.
“I noticed,” you say, unable to stop yourself now. “I never knew why. I figured maybe it was because I didn’t fall in line. Because I didn’t laugh at your jokes or look at you like you were untouchable.” You finally glance at him, meeting his eyes. “Maybe it bothered you that I stood up to you. That I didn’t take your shit, or let you into my pants because you’re cute.”
A beat.
The candle flickers.
Bellamy looks down at his hands, then back up at the wall ahead of you both. When he speaks, there’s no defensiveness in his voice. Just something raw, unsettled.
“So you thought I was an arrogant guy with an ego.”
You shrug slightly. “Yeah.”
“And you still think that?” he asks.
You hesitate. “I think you were.”
That makes him let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
“And now?”
You lean your head back against the wall, eyes closing briefly. “Now I think you’re still an ass. Just… a more complicated one.”
That earns a quiet, surprised huff from him.
“Fair,” he says.
The air is still between you two for a couple silent moments.
“Can I say what I think now?” He breaks the silence and you raise an eyebrow at him.
You open your eyes and turn your head just enough to look at him, one eyebrow lifting despite yourself. “Since when has that ever stopped you?”
A corner of his mouth twitches, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t think that’s all it is.”
“What?” you ask, genuinely confused, irritation already curling low in your stomach.
“That you don’t like me because I was arrogant.” He shakes his head once, decisive. “That’s the excuse.”
Your spine straightens instantly, tension snapping through you like a pulled wire. The warmth you’d been reluctantly accepting suddenly feels intrusive.
“You don’t get to tell me how I feel,” you say sharply.
“No,” he agrees easily. “But I get to tell you what I see.”
You scoff, short and biting. “Oh, this should be good.”
Bellamy shifts, turning his body so his torso faces you fully now. The movement brings him closer, knees angled toward yours, shoulders squared. He leans forward just slightly, voice low but steady.
“You use disliking me as cover,” he says. “Because it’s easier than admitting you might feel something else.”
Your head jerks back as if he’s physically struck you. “That’s not—”
He cuts you off without raising his voice. “You didn’t just happen to notice every time I slept with someone.” His eyes stay locked on yours, unflinching. “You didn’t just happen to be watching.”
Heat flares in your chest— anger, embarrassment, something dangerously close to panic.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap, jaw tight, hands curling into fists beneath the blanket.
He doesn’t back off. If anything, he leans in closer, closing the already narrow space between you. “Then look me in the eyes,” he says quietly, “and tell me you don’t want me.”
The challenge lands heavy.
Your heart slams against your ribs. You turn fully toward him now, faces barely a foot apart. Candlelight flickers across his features, catching in his eyes, making them look darker than they should.
“I don’t want you,” you say, each word clipped, your face burning with barely contained rage and frustration.
Something sharp and unreadable flashes across his expression.
“Prove it,” he says.
That’s it.
Something in you snaps— clean and sudden. Before your brain can catch up, before you can stop yourself, you surge forward and kiss him.
It’s brief. Sharp. All teeth and heat and impulse.
Just a few seconds— just long enough to make your point.
Bellamy freezes for a split second, stunned, breath hitching against your lips. And then he’s kissing you back.
Not gentle. Not hesitant.
The contact is electric, a jolt that runs straight through you, lighting up every nerve. His mouth moves against yours with a familiarity that shouldn’t exist, like he’s been waiting for this, like he knows exactly how to fit against you.
You pull away abruptly, breath already unsteady. “There,” you say, voice a little breathless despite yourself. “Happy?”
You watch his eyes darken instantly. His jaw tightens. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, slow and deliberate, and the sight makes your stomach flip traitorously.
The bunker is silent except for the storm and the sound of both of you breathing a little too hard.
Then Bellamy moves.
He surges forward and kisses you again, harder this time, all pent-up tension and heat and years of unspoken friction crashing together at once. You gasp softly against his mouth, hands instinctively coming up to brace against his chest— and instead of pushing him away, you kiss him back.
Fully. Fiercely.
For a few dizzying moments, there’s nothing but him—his warmth, his mouth, the solid press of his body against yours. The cold vanishes entirely, replaced by a spreading heat that curls low in your stomach and steals your breath.
And then your mind catches up.
You shove at his chest, breaking the kiss, pulling back with a sharp inhale. “Stop—”
Bellamy freezes instantly, hands lifting away from you, eyes searching your face.
Your chest heaves as you stare at each other, confusion and want mirrored in his gaze. The air between you feels charged, alive, humming with something dangerous and undeniable.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Then— because apparently you have learned absolutely nothing— you grab his jacket and pull him back in.
This kiss is just as heated as the last, a mess of clashing teeth and tongues, like you’re both testing something you already know is going to burn you. The candlelight flickers wildly against the walls as you lean into him, the chill of the bunker completely forgotten, replaced by heat and breath and the pounding of your heart.
You know you shouldn’t be doing this.
The thought flashes through your mind, sharp and insistent, even as your mouth stays pressed to his. Even as you lean into him like your body has already decided something your brain hasn’t caught up with yet. You had just laid it all out— every reason, every irritation, every carefully built wall you’d stacked between you and Bellamy Blake over the years.
And now here you are, kissing him like you’re starving.
It makes no sense. It shouldn’t feel like this.
His lips are warm and insistent, moving against yours with a familiarity that makes your stomach twist. There’s something dangerously addictive about the way he kisses you— like he’s not rushing, but he’s not hesitating either. Like he knows exactly how close to push without you pulling away.
You tell yourself to stop.
Instead, you chase the taste of him, chasing that soft, intoxicating pull that sinks deeper every second you stay here. His lips taste faintly sweet, like something you weren’t meant to have but took anyway, and now you can’t remember how to want anything else.
His hands find your waist.
The contact makes you suck in a breath, your fingers tightening briefly in the fabric of his jacket. His grip is firm but not rough, thumbs pressing into your sides like he’s grounding himself—or you. Slowly, deliberately, his hands move, sliding along your torso, down over your hips, then back up again, like he’s mapping you out, memorizing.
It sends heat racing through you, sharp and sudden.
You break the kiss just long enough to breathe. “This—” Your voice comes out unsteady, betraying you immediately. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
Bellamy doesn’t even let you finish.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, silencing the words before they can turn into something real. His mouth is relentless now, coaxing, persuading, like he knows exactly how fragile your resolve is in this moment.
“Bellamy—” you try, but it dissolves into a quiet sound when his hand shifts, when his body presses closer.
You feel him move, feel his knee nudge between yours, and then he’s guiding you without asking— encouraging your leg up, his grip steady and sure. There’s barely time to think before you comply, before your leg hooks over his, and then the other follows.
You’re straddling him.
The realization hits you all at once, a rush of heat and disbelief. You settle into his lap, instinctively adjusting, your hands bracing against his shoulders as the closeness becomes overwhelming. His warmth surrounds you, solid and undeniable, and the last remnants of the cold bunker fade into nothing.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, forehead briefly resting against yours.
You pull back just enough to look at him, heart racing. “I still don’t like you,” you insist, like saying it out loud might make it true again.
His lips curve, not quite a smile. “Sure,” he says softly, amused. “That’s why you’re sitting on me.”
You scowl and kiss him again, hard, biting and frustrated. “This doesn’t mean anything,” you repeat between kisses, like a mantra.
He huffs out a quiet laugh against your mouth. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true,” you snap, breathless.
“Right,” he says, voice low, hands tightening briefly at your waist. “You hate me so much you can’t keep your mouth off mine.”
“Fuck you,” you say without thinking, the words tumbling out heated and raw.
Something dark and amused flashes in his eyes.
“Careful what you wish for,” Bellamy murmurs before going to attack your neck with hips lips.
The words send a shiver straight through you and you gasp as he tightly squeezes your ass with both hands. He sucks the tender spot under your ear and you find yourself rolling your hips, grinding down on his hardening, clothed cock. He groans at the movement.
Your hands find their way to his curls, weaving them through and clinging on as you repeat the motion with your hips again.
He lets out a strangled groan, this time louder and with a bite to your neck. You yelp out at the sting and he freezes, hands clamping down on your waist, halting your movement.
“Shit,” he breathes, “Stop doing that.”
You look down at him with a quirked eyebrow, “Why? Can’t handle it?”
His dark eyes don’t even meet yours for an explanation, instead he just yanks your body, switching positions so he’s hovering over you, your back now to the floor. You let out a small squeak at the abrupt movement. When you look up to his eyes above you, suddenly you don’t feel as confident anymore.
His eyes are dark and his tongue darts out to wet his swollen lips, his hair slightly hanging down. The sight was something you never thought you’d see first hand— you always hoped you never would— but something about the way he looked down at you had your lower abdomen swirling with heated desire and your hands moving to tug his shirt up from the bottom.
Quickly he tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it aside before rearranging the blankets across you both. But you didn’t feel the need for the blankets anymore, you were definitely not cold anymore, in fact, you were increasingly warm and you felt yourself wanting to take off your shirt with his.
Seemingly, Bellamy had the same idea as he tugged your shirt off as well, leaving you bare under him, your chest rising and falling with every quick breath you took.
He stared down at you with a look of hunger you had never seen on his face and it almost scared you.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
You swallowed, unsure of how you felt being under his gaze this way. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
His eyes tore themselves from your chest and met your own with a glint of challenge in his gaze. He bends his neck down and you watch as he licks a stripe on the expanse of your sternum, his tongue leaving a glossy trail on your skin in its wake.
“Forgot my camera.” He murmurs and you feel his hand dip into the front waistband of your pants and into your damp underwear. You draw in a breath as his fingers trail over your core, not yet touching yet. “You always get this wet for guys you don’t want?” His voice questions low.
Defiantly, you tilt your chin up, not wanting to answer his snide question.
“Come on, answer,” he speaks again, lowering his head once again, this time to take one of your hard nipples into his mouth. Your mouth drops open and you find yourself shaking your head. He sees your motion of admission and lets go of your nipple with a pop, “So this is all for me then.”
You wished he would stop all this talking and just get on with it.
“Blake,” you warn and he just smirks.
Out of nowhere, you feel two of his large fingers enter your sopping core and you moan.
“So fucking wet,” he mutters, dragging them in and out in a lazily slow rhythm.
“Shit!” Moans tumble from your mouth before you can stop them and he increases his pace, adding a thumb to your clit, the sensation dizzying.
You feel the coil in your lower abdomen tightening faster than you care to admit to anyone. When he adds a curling motion to his fingers thrusts, you see stars. It only takes a few more strokes for you to come apart on his fingers.
Now, you were grateful to be alone in this bunker with him with how loud you were being. You gathered your bearings quickly when he withdrew his hand from your underwear, but he began tugging off your pants shortly after and you gulped as your hands fumble for the button at the front of his pants.
He gets your pants tugged down your legs and moves on to help you pull his own pants down, leaving him in nothing but his tattered, old boxers. His erection was obvious. Hard and obvious.
The space between you is still for a moment, and you reach your hand down tentatively, slipping your hand into the fabric and grabbing hold of his length. His shuddering breath is instant.
You move to stroke him. Once. Twice. His arm shoots out to grab your wrist, halting your movement with a shaky groan. A few beats pass and he slowly pulls your hand from himself, seemingly gathering his own bearings. Your arms move again, this time to tug off the boxers. He lets you.
The fabric moved out of the way easily, his cock springing free— thick and rigid, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.
The bunker’s interior felt even smaller now, the faint storm raging outside mirroring the chaos building between you. Your breath hitched as he shifted closer, his knees bracketing your hips, the heat of his body pressing against your bare skin.
He grips your thigh, hitching your leg around his waist, and aligns himself with your entrance. The head of his cock nudging your slick folds, parting them roughly before he thrust forward in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt inside your pussy. You yelp, the sudden fullness stretching you wide, walls clenching around his length as he fills you completely. No teasing, no slow build— just raw need driving him to pound into you hard and fast.
Screams came from both of your mouths, the noise melding together in a mess of tangled breath and moans.
Bellamy's fingers dig into your asscheeks, pulling you onto him with each savage thrust, his balls slapping against your skin.
“Fuck,” he grunts, his mouth crashing back to yours in a messy, teeth-clashing kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucks you deeper, the angle hitting that spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Sweat slicked your bodies, the shared warmth turning feverish, every slide of his cock dragging friction along your inner walls.
You claw at his back, nails raking red lines down his shoulders, urging him on as the pressure coils tight in your core. He breaks the kiss to bury his face in your neck, biting down on your collarbone while his pace turns frantic, hips snapping erratically. Your pussy flutters around him, the roughness threatening to push you over the edge.
“Shit! I’m gonna— fuck!” You cry out between rough thrusts and you feel the impending wave of pleasure crash over you with bruising force.
Your orgasm rips through you in a shuddering wave, your cry echoing in the confined space as you come hard, juices soaking his shaft.
Bellamy follows seconds later, his cock throbbing as he drives in one last time, spilling hot cum deep inside you with a guttural roar. His body tensed, muscles locking as he emptied himself, pulse after pulse flooding your pussy until he collapsed against you, both of you spent and panting.
For a long moment, neither of you moves, the aftershocks fading into heavy breaths amid the howling wind just beyond the bunkers hatch. Bewilderment settled in like the chill that threatened to seep beyond the walls—what the hell had just happened?
It’s silent between the two of you, both of your minds obviously running wild with thoughts and questions.
“We'll... figure this out in the morning,” Bellamy murmurs, voice rough with fatigue, his arm draping over your waist. You nod faintly, eyes drifting shut, and sleep claims you both there on the cold floor, the storm a distant rumble.
He’s right, you can figure whatever this is out in the morning. Right now you felt too comfortable under the warm weight of him.
Prompt: Christmas Ball Fake Dating (Boarding School AU) Part 2
Read Part 1 Here!!
Synopsis: You and Bellamy leave the Ball together and sit outside in the courtyard. Frankly, you're sick of pretending that it's all fake, but apparently he’s even more sick of it. Bellamy slips up that it was his plan all along to go to the dance with you.
Warnings: none, fluff
Notes: It’s Day 8 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
Word Count: 3.8k
You leave the ballroom before either of you can second-guess it.
Bellamy nudges the tall doors open with his shoulder, tuxedo jacket creasing slightly as warm light and music spill out into the cold night. For a brief second, the glow clings to you both— golden and bright— before the doors swing shut behind you.
The quiet hits instantly.
Cold air curls around your bare shoulders and you laugh, breath puffing faintly in front of you as you step into the courtyard. Bellamy adjusts his tie absently, still smiling, curls a little looser now than when the night started.
He lifts the napkin-wrapped cookies in his hand like he’s proud of himself. “Tell me stealing these wasn’t the best decision we made tonight.”
You glance down at the cookies you grabbed too, tucked carefully against your dress. “Oh, it absolutely was. If anyone asks, we earned these.”
He snorts. “We danced. That counts.”
You start walking side by side across the stone path, heels clicking softly against the ground. His dress shoes echo beside yours, polished but scuffed just enough to show he actually used them tonight.
You’re both still laughing— still riding the leftover energy from the dance floor.
“Did you see Miller’s face when Octavia nearly knocked Lincoln over?” you say, shaking your head.
Bellamy laughs, deep and easy. “I thought Lincoln was done for. One more spin and he would’ve been on the floor.”
“She did not need that much momentum,” you say, bumping your shoulder lightly into Bellamy’s.
He bumps you back without thinking, the side of his tux brushing your arm. The contact lingers just a beat too long before you both keep walking, neither of you pulling away.
The courtyard opens up ahead— darker now, quieter. White lights trace the edges of the old stone walls and the bare branches overhead, casting soft shadows across the ground. The music from the ballroom hums faintly behind you, distant and blurred, mixed with the low murmur of voices from students lingering near the doors.
You breathe it in.
The cold. The quiet. The strange, warm afterglow sitting in your chest.
You hadn’t expected this.
You hadn’t expected the night to feel so easy. So natural. To laugh like that with him, to forget you were pretending, to forget you were supposed to be careful.
You hadn’t expected to wish— quietly, selfishly— that it wasn’t just for show.
The thought settles in your mind as you walk, dangerous and soft. You don’t chase it away.
You take a bite of your cookie, chocolate warm against your fingers, and it crumbles more than you expect. A few crumbs scatter down the front of your dress.
You stop walking with a small groan. “Oh my god.”
Bellamy stops too, turning toward you immediately. “What?”
“My cookie just betrayed me,” you say, brushing at the fabric carefully. “Unprovoked.”
He watches you for a second, lips twitching before he laughs. “That’s tragic.”
“Absolutely devastating.”
You glance past him and spot the stone ledge a little ways away— raised a little high off the ground, just enough to be able to get up onto it in your current attire, tucked partially behind one of the trees. It’s far enough from the dance that the noise fades into something barely there. Just a hum. Just enough to remind you the night isn’t over yet.
You point with the cookie still in your hand. “Hey. Wanna sit over there for a second?”
Bellamy follows your gaze, nodding easily. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
You walk over together, steps slowing. The space feels different here— quieter, more private. The lights don’t reach as far, and the shadows soften everything.
You step close to the ledge carefully in your heels, and place your hands on the cool stone before using your upper body strength to hoist yourself up to a sit on top of the surface. You smooth your dress beneath you as you sit, your feet hovering about a foot above the ground.
Instead of sitting next to you, Bellamy stops in front of you, still standing in his tux, shoulders relaxed, the ledge bringing you to his standing eye level.
You sit there quietly for a while.
Not the awkward kind of quiet— just the soft, companionable kind that settles in when there’s nothing you need to say. The stone beneath you is cold even through the fabric of your dress, but you barely notice it. Bellamy stands close enough that you can feel his presence without looking at him, the faint rustle of his tuxedo when he shifts his weight, the soft scuff of his dress shoes against the ground.
You munch on your cookie slowly, deliberately, letting the sweetness linger. Chocolate melts against your tongue, grounding you in the moment. The distant music from the ballroom drifts out in low waves, muffled and far away, like it belongs to another world entirely. Somewhere, people laugh. Somewhere, someone cheers when a song changes.
But here, it’s just you.
And him.
You let your gaze wander upward, following the strings of lights until they disappear into the darkness. The sky above the courtyard is deep and clear, stars scattered faintly across it, barely visible through the glow of campus lights. You breathe in the cold air and feel it fill your lungs, sharp and clean.
This is nice, you think.
Nicer than you expected.
Nicer than it probably should be.
You hadn’t planned for this part— the quiet after the pretending. The way the night didn’t immediately snap back into something normal once the music stopped and the crowd thinned. You thought the feelings would fade with the noise, dissolve once you were away from prying eyes.
Instead, they’ve only gotten louder.
You take another bite of your cookie, brushing crumbs from your fingers absently, and stare at the sky a little longer than necessary. It’s easier than looking at him. Easier than acknowledging the warmth pooling low in your chest, the soft ache that keeps whispering what if.
You don’t realize anything’s changed at first.
It’s subtle— just a shift in the air, a feeling of being watched. You glance down briefly and notice that Bellamy’s hands are empty now. No cookie. No napkin. He must’ve finished it without you noticing.
You follow the thought slowly, your gaze lifting—
And you stop.
Bellamy is looking at you.
Not casually. Not the way he’s been all night when he glances over with an easy smile or a teasing look. This is different. His face is softer, more open. His eyes hold something that makes your breath catch before you can stop it.
It’s the same look he gave you earlier— when he first saw you in your dress— but deeper. Quieter. Like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
Like he forgot to hide it.
Your heart stumbles.
You feel suddenly too warm despite the cold, too aware of how close he is, how the light catches in his eyes. The moment stretches, fragile and heavy, until your nerves spark and you speak before you can talk yourself out of it.
“What?”
The word comes out softer than you mean it to— breathy, hovering somewhere between a laugh and shock. Like you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing.
Bellamy blinks.
Once.
Twice.
And then realization hits him.
He looks away quickly, a quiet laugh slipping out of him as he shakes his head, embarrassed. He takes a small step forward— just a tiny one— closing the distance without even seeming to notice he’s doing it.
“Nothing,” he says, voice low, almost careful. Then, after a beat, quieter still, “It’s just… you look beautiful tonight.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Your face heats instantly, cheeks flushing as you duck your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. You lift two fingers and gently press them to his shoulder, nudging him back just a fraction like it’s a joke, like it doesn’t affect you nearly as much as it does.
“Yeah,” you say lightly, trying to keep your tone even, playful. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”
He doesn’t laugh this time.
“I’m serious,” he says instead, steady and sincere. “I mean it. You look beautiful.”
That does it.
Your smile softens, and the joking edge falls away. You look down at your hands in your lap, suddenly very aware of the quiet again, of how close he is, of how real his words sound.
“Thank you,” you say softly.
Silence settles between you once more.
You don’t really know what to say after that.
The words you look beautiful keep echoing in your head, looping back on themselves in a way that feels dangerous. Bellamy has said things like that before— compliments tossed casually, half-teasing, half-performative. Earlier tonight, even. But that was different. That was part of the show. Something said because there were eyes on you, expectations to meet.
Out here, there’s no one watching.
No audience.
No reason to pretend.
The thought makes your chest tighten.
You pick at the edge of the napkin in your hands, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is again. Bellamy doesn’t rush to fill the silence, and somehow that makes it heavier. You wonder if he’s thinking the same thing you are, or if your thoughts are getting away from you.
Then you hear the soft scrape of fabric against stone.
Bellamy sets one hand on the ledge beside you— on your right, close enough that you feel the warmth of him even through the cold air. He leans some of his weight onto it, casual in posture but not quite relaxed. It puts him closer now, angled toward you.
He looks out into the courtyard instead of at you when he speaks.
“Is it crazy of me to say,” he starts, then pauses like he’s choosing his words carefully, “that I don’t want this night to end?”
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
You don’t know exactly how he means it. Whether he’s talking about the dancing, the laughter, the relief of a night that went better than expected— or if he means this. The quiet. The closeness. The strange, fragile space you’re standing in now.
But you know how you mean it.
You don’t want the night to end because if it does, so does the pretending. The excuse to be close to him. To look at him the way you have been without questioning it. To be something to him— even if it’s only borrowed.
The realization makes you feel selfish. And honest.
You nod once, then speak before you can second-guess yourself. “No,” you say softly. “It’s not crazy.”
He glances at you, hopeful, uncertain.
“I was thinking that too,” you add, your voice quieter but steadier now. “I don’t really want it to end either.”
Relief crosses his face immediately— clear, unguarded. His shoulders loosen like he’s been holding something in all night.
“Yeah?” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Because… I don’t know. I just—” He exhales a soft laugh. “I really enjoyed tonight.”
You feel your lips curve into a smile without effort. “Me too,” you say. “I had more fun than I thought I would.”
“That makes two of us,” he says easily. “I’m glad I came with you. Really.”
Something warm blooms in your chest at that.
“Me too,” you say again, and this time it means more than just the words.
You don’t say the rest— that you would’ve been quietly devastated if he’d walked in with someone else on his arm. That you noticed the way other girls looked at him tonight, eyes lingering, smiles a little too hopeful. That he never seems to notice it, or if he does, he doesn’t let it register.
You hesitate, then let the thought slip out anyway.
“I’m actually kind of surprised no one asked you out before all this,” you admit.
Bellamy turns his head fully toward you now, one eyebrow lifting. “Yeah?” he says. “Why’s that?”
Oh.
Your cheeks heat instantly.
You stumble over the words, suddenly aware of how close he is again, how easily this could be misread. You shift slightly on the ledge, trying to play it off.
“I just mean—” you start, then stop, then try again. “Other girls like you. We both know that.” You gesture vaguely, then add quickly, “And, you know… you’re not ugly.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you want to bury your face in your hands.
Bellamy laughs— not unkindly, not teasing, just surprised. “Wow. High praise.”
You groan softly. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he says, still smiling. Then he tilts his head, almost amused. “And for your information… I did actually get asked out. By a couple girls.”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
Then you guffaw, the sound slipping out of you before you can stop it. “Wait— what?”
He shrugs, casual. “Yeah.”
Your mind scrambles to catch up.
You hadn’t known that. At all. You’d been under the impression that this whole arrangement was born purely out of mutual desperation, two people trying to escape social pressure. The idea that he had options— and still chose this— hits you harder than it should.
You stare at him, stunned, cookie crumbs forgotten entirely.
You blink at him, still trying to process what he just said.
“What do you mean?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend. “You… you got asked out?”
Bellamy rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish in a way you don’t see often. It’s almost boyish. Almost nervous.
“Yeah,” he says with a small laugh. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it mattered.”
Your stomach twists, curiosity sharpening. “By who?”
He exhales, like he’s resigned himself to explaining. “Okay. Uh. Three girls.”
“Three?” you repeat, incredulous.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “But it’s not— listen—” He gestures vaguely with his free hand, then sighs. “The first one was Bree.”
Your eyebrows knit together immediately. “Bree… like, Bree Bree?”
“Yeah,” he confirms. “But I heard she was kind of mean to Octavia once. Like, really dismissive. And that was pretty much an automatic no for me.”
Your lips curve despite yourself. Of course that mattered to him. Of course it did.
“And the second?” you ask.
“Fox,” he says. “She’s nice enough, just… too young for me. I had to let her down easy.”
You nod slowly, following along, your thoughts already racing ahead.
“And the third?” you ask, even though something in your chest tightens in anticipation.
Bellamy hesitates for half a second longer this time before saying, “Roma.”
Your breath stutters.
“Roma Bragg?” you blurt.
He nods like it’s no big deal. “Yeah.”
That’s… confusing. Deeply confusing.
“Wait,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “I thought Roma was your type.”
You’ve seen the way Roma looks. Confident. Pretty. The kind of girl who always seems like she knows exactly what she’s doing. The kind of girl people assume Bellamy would end up with.
“So why didn’t you say yes?”
He shrugs, simple and honest. “I just didn’t want to go with her.”
The words hit harder than you expect.
“Why not?” you ask, a little too quickly.
Bellamy looks at the ground for a second, then back up at you. “Because she wasn’t the person I was hoping to go with in the first place.”
Oh.
Your stomach drops straight through the stone beneath you.
“Oh,” you say quietly.
You hadn’t known that. Hadn’t even considered it. You thought the pressure got to him the same way it got to you— that this whole thing was necessity, coincidence, convenience.
The idea that he had been hoping to go with someone— someone specific— stings in a way you weren’t prepared for.
You swallow, heart thudding painfully in your chest.
You tell yourself not to ask.
You tell yourself it’s none of your business.
But curiosity presses in, insistent and impossible to ignore.
After a few moments of silence, you ask anyway.
“So,” you say, voice careful, “who did you want to go with?”
Bellamy’s expression changes instantly.
He looks nervous.
Not joking-nervous. Not awkward-nervous. Actually nervous.
He shakes his head, letting out a small breath. “It’s not important.”
That only makes it worse.
You reach out and give his shoulder a light shove, trying to keep it playful even though your heart is hammering. “No. You can’t say something like that and then just stop. You have to tell me now.”
He winces a little, like he’s bracing himself.
And somehow, watching him do that makes you brace too— your chest tightening, every muscle suddenly aware, preparing for a name you’re not sure you want to hear.
He takes a breath.
Then another.
Then he says it.
“Well… You.”
The world tilts.
Your heart drops so hard it feels like it hits your heels.
You stare at him, frozen. Your mouth opens instinctively, but nothing comes out. No sound. No words. Your eyes are locked on his, wide and unblinking, like if you look away this might all disappear.
Bellamy panics a little.
“I—” he starts, then rushes on, words tumbling over each other. “I just mean— I never really cared about anyone else like that. Not seriously anyway. And then this fake date thing came up and I figured, okay, it’s harmless, it’s just for show, and I didn’t think you’d even agree. But you said yes so fast and—” He laughs softly, breathless. “From the moment we walked in together— from the moment I got to pretend you were actually mine, I just… I realized I didn’t want to stop.”
Your chest feels too full. Too tight.
“It felt right,” he says quietly. “All of it. Being with you like that. I didn’t— I didn’t want the night to end because I didn’t want to stop pretending.”
Your mind is racing, thoughts crashing into each other, overlapping, loud.
He wanted to go with me.
He’s saying this now.
I feel the same way.
But your body won’t cooperate.
You stay silent, absorbing every word, every look, every shaky breath he takes. You want to respond. You need to respond. But the words pile up behind your teeth and never make it out.
Bellamy finally stops rambling. He inhales deeply, steadying himself.
When you still don’t say anything— when your mouth just opens and closes uselessly, eyes still glued to his— his voice softens.
“Please,” he says quietly. “Say something.”
Your lips part again.
Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.
You swallow, trying to force air into your lungs, you’re about to get a word out—
“Shit.”
Bellamy drags both hands up into his hair, fingers curling tight at the roots as if he can physically pull himself out of the moment. He takes a step back, then another, panic written all over his face.
“I fucked up, didn’t I?”
Your heart lurches.
Before you can answer— before you can even think— he’s already spiraling, already retreating like he’s convinced he’s crossed some invisible line.
He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms hard against them. His voice keeps going, tumbling over itself now, raw and unguarded.
“Just forget it. Forget I ever said anything. God, I am such an—”
You don’t let him finish.
You don’t think.
You don’t weigh consequences or logic or timing.
You lean forward sharply, grab a fistful of his blazer collar, and yank him toward you.
Your lips crash into his.
The world stops.
Bellamy freezes instantly, breath hitching hard against your mouth. For half a heartbeat, he doesn’t move at all— like his body hasn’t caught up to what’s happening yet. His lips are warm, softer than you imagined, and the contact sends a shock straight through your chest.
Then his hands come up.
Carefully at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. His palms slide to the sides of your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you both in the moment. His lips are still, stunned, pressed against yours like he can’t believe this is real.
You pull back just slightly.
His eyes open.
They’re wide. Dark. Completely blown open with disbelief.
He swallows, breath uneven, still holding your face like he might drop you otherwise.
“…idiot,” he finishes quietly, awestruck.
The word lands like an echo of what he almost said about himself— and something in your chest cracks open at the tenderness in his voice.
Then your brain catches up.
Oh my god.
I just kissed him.
I just kissed Bellamy.
Your thoughts scatter, panic flaring hot and sudden. Your eyes flick between his— searching, unsure, terrified you misread everything. Your heart is racing so fast it feels like it might shake out of your ribs.
And just as the doubt starts to swell—
Bellamy leans in again.
This time there’s no hesitation.
He kisses you like he’s been waiting years for it.
Not rushed. Not frantic. Just certain.
His lips move against yours with a confidence that steals the air from your lungs, like he finally knows where he’s meant to be. His hands slide from your cheeks to your neck, then to your waist, anchoring you as you melt into him.
The kiss deepens, slower and warmer, and you feel yourself smiling into it because this— this is what your body has known all along.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathing hard, foreheads almost touching.
Your words come back to you all at once.
“I didn’t want to stop pretending either,” you say softly, the truth spilling out now that the door’s open. “That’s why I couldn’t say anything. I— I feel the same way.”
Bellamy lets out a breath that sounds like relief.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, eyes searching yours.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His smile is slow. Real. A little disbelieving.
“Then maybe,” he says quietly, hopeful and steady, “we don’t have to pretend anymore.”
Your fingers lift without thinking, threading into the curls at the nape of his neck. They’re softer than they look. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.
You nod again, closer this time. “I’d like that,” you admit. “A lot, actually.”
He laughs softly, like he can’t help it.
You kiss again— lighter now, giddy and sweet, full of nervous smiles and quiet laughter between breaths. Everything feels brighter. Easier. Like something finally clicked into place.
When you pull back, still close, he murmurs, “Wow.”
A beat passes.
“What a turn of events.”
And then you’re both laughing, quiet and breathless, foreheads pressed together in your little hidden corner of the courtyard— giddy, stunned, and very, very glad neither of you let the night end in a game of pretend.
Prompt: Christmas Ball Fake Dating (Boarding School AU) Part 1
Read Part 2 Here
Synopsis: You and your best friend Bellamy both find yourself in sticky situations when you both accidentally told your friends you already had dates to your school’s Christmas Ball. You decide to go together and fake Date for the night just to surprise the others and get them off your backs.
Warnings: none, fluff
Notes: It’s Day 7 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
Word Count: 2.1k
Borders: @estrelinha-s
Bellamy sits at the foot of your bed, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in the hem of his sweater like he’s trying to wring the embarrassment out of it. His dark curls fall over his forehead the way they always do when he’s thinking too hard.
“You’re gonna laugh,” he mutters.
You close your laptop and scoot closer, nudging his knee with yours.
“Probably. But tell me anyway.”
He groans. “Okay, so you know how Miller and them keep going on about the ball? Asking who I’m taking? Telling me to pick someone before all the good options are gone?”
You raise an eyebrow. “The good options?”
He shoots you a look. “Not the point.”
You hold up your hands in surrender. “Right, right. Continue.”
“So I panicked,” he says flatly. “And I told them I already had a date.”
You try— really try— not to react, but your stomach drops like someone cut the strings. You stare at a wrinkle in your comforter.
“Oh,” you manage. “Who’s the lucky—”
“No one!” he says quickly, sitting up straighter. “I mean— there is no lucky anyone. I just said it to get them to shut up.”
That… stings less. But still.
You clear your throat. “So… funny story.”
His head snaps toward you. “No. No way. You too?”
You nod, laughing despite yourself. “Octavia wouldn’t stop. She was doing that thing she does where she acts like she knows everything? I got cornered. I folded. I told her I already had a date.”
Bellamy drags a hand down his face. “We’re idiots.”
“We really are.”
For a moment, you both sit there in the warm quiet of the dorm, the twinkle lights above your bed flickering just faintly. His knee bumps yours again, softer this time.
Then he says, “What if…”
You look up. “What if… what?”
“What if we just went together?” he says, like it’s obvious.
Then, quickly, like he’s scared you’ll shut it down—
“I mean, just to get everyone off our backs. Show up, do the whole dramatic reveal, get the satisfaction of watching their faces drop. And then… that’s it.”
Your heartbeat lifts slightly. “Fake date?”
“Exactly.”
You twist your lips, pretending to consider it instead of trying to hide the sudden warmth blooming in your chest.
“You know Octavia is going to combust.”
“She’ll live,” Bellamy says. “And my friends deserve to eat their words.”
You snort. “Okay, but we should plan this out. If we show up separately and just… suddenly appear together, they might think it’s a bit suspicious.”
He nods, getting into it. “We meet at the dorm hallway, walk in together. Maybe, I don’t know, link arms or something.”
You try not to think too hard about something.
“And,” he adds, “we keep it secret until the night of. No telling O. No telling my friends. Just let the chaos unfold.”
You grin, already picturing the look on Octavia’s face.
“I’m in.”
Bellamy grins back— slow, warm, a little relieved.
“Then it’s a date,” he says.
A joke. Definitely a joke.
…Right?
What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
—
You smooth your palms over the skirt of your dress for what has to be the tenth time, trying to calm the nerves buzzing beneath your skin. The dorm hallway is warm, humming with people getting ready, last-minute hair touch-ups, perfume hanging in the air like a fog. Octavia is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with a look that makes you shift on your feet.
“You look so unbelievably beautiful,” she says, like it’s a fact she’s been waiting to state for hours.
Heat floods your face. “O, stop—”
“I will not stop,” she insists, pushing off the wall to tug lightly at a strand of your hair. “Honestly, if your mystery guy doesn’t pass out when he sees you, he’s legally blind.”
You laugh, though your stomach is too knotted to enjoy it. Because people are already glancing your way—some in passing, some with raised eyebrows like they’re mentally flipping through a list of who you could possibly be meeting tonight. Every set of eyes makes your heart beat faster.
Octavia loops her arm around yours as you two head down the stairs and into the crisp air. The campus looks like something out of a postcard—snow dusting the hedges, warm yellow light spilling from the ballroom windows, holiday garlands twinkling above the entrance.
Students gather in little clusters outside the doors, murmuring, adjusting ties, brushing off their coats. Every few steps someone looks at you, quick and curious, and you suddenly feel like a contestant about to be judged.
Octavia does not help your nerves.
“I swear,” she says, scanning the crowd like a hawk, “if this guy is not at least semi-decent looking after all this ‘surprise date’ nonsense—”
“O,” you warn.
“Fine, fine. I trust you. Kind of.” She nudges your side. “But I am excited. You’ve been… different. Like…” She squints at you. “Like you’re glowing.”
You choke on air. “I’m cold. That’s not glowing, it’s—”
“Frozen glitter,” she says dismissively. “Shush.”
Lincoln waves you two over before you can protest more. He’s standing by the steps with that patient, slightly amused smile he always seems to have when Octavia is worked up.
“Wow,” he says as you approach, “you clean up nice.”
“You’re not helping,” you mutter.
“Why?” Lincoln asks innocently. “Someone nervous?”
Octavia elbows him in the ribs. “She won’t tell me anything about this guy. Not his name, not a hint, not even what year he is— nothing. And apparently he’s meeting her inside, which is suspicious. If he doesn’t show up, I’m dragging her home.”
“He’ll show,” you say— partially to convince yourself. “We’re meeting near the front entrance.”
Lincoln hums, glancing toward the doors. “Well? Should we go in and watch you dramatically reveal this mystery man?”
Octavia claps once, excited. “Yes. Please.”
Your mouth is dry. Your heartbeat is everywhere—your chest, your hands, your throat. Every step toward the ballroom feels strangely heavy, weighted with anticipation and oh god, the plan suddenly feels real. You’re about to walk across a crowded room and meet Bellamy Blake under Christmas lights like you’ve done this a thousand times. Like you belong together.
You reach the entrance and swallow.
“Okay,” you tell Octavia, “I’m going to meet him. Don’t follow me.”
She raises a brow. “Um, yes, I absolutely will.”
“No,” you hiss, “O, you have to wait here. That’s the deal.”
She groans dramatically, but Lincoln touches her arm and murmurs, “Let her breathe.”
She huffs but nods. “Fine. But if he’s not hot, I’m coming in swinging.”
You take a deep breath, gather your skirt, and step into the ballroom.
It’s warm, filled with golden light, twirling couples, shimmering decorations that make everything glow. Music sweeps around you in slow, elegant waves.
And then you see him.
Bellamy is standing exactly where you agreed he would— by the tall frosted window, hands in his pockets, adjusting the cuff of his suit like he wasn’t sure it fit right. His curls are neater than usual but still soft, still somehow perfectly him. The deep green of his tie almost matches the garlands woven through the room.
He looks up.
And he freezes.
For a second— maybe longer— you don’t move. Neither does he. His eyes travel slowly, carefully, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you and trying not to show it.
Then he smiles.
Small at first. Then warm. Then brighter than any string of lights in the room.
You cross the space between you with your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs and your throat. Behind you, from the doorway, you hear Octavia’s voice rise like a firecracker:
“I KNEW IT!”
You stop mid-step, mortified.
“OCTAVIA,” you whisper-shout over your shoulder.
But she’s already standing in the doorway with her hands thrown in the air, Lincoln groaning beside her, trying— and failing— to pull her back.
“I knew you liked my brother!” she says, eyes wide, grin wider. “Mystery date my ass!”
Bellamy’s ears go pink. You want the floor to open and swallow you.
He steps closer, voice soft so only you hear it. “Well… the secret’s out.”
You give him a look somewhere between flustered and fond. “Apparently.”
He holds out his arm, a playful edge to his voice. “Shall we give her something worth screaming about, then?”
You slip your hand into the crook of his elbow.
And the room shifts.
Because when you walk onto the dance floor with Bellamy Blake—your best friend, your fake date, the boy who has never looked at you quite like this before— the world feels different. Warmer. Closer. Charged.
The music swells, soft and steady, as he pulls you into the first dance. His hand settles on your waist, fingers careful but firm. Your other hand meets his, fitting easily, naturally, like it’s done this before.
“You look…” He clears his throat. “Really beautiful.”
Your chest tightens. “So do you,” you whisper back.
He laughs, shaking his head. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is tonight.”
And you dance. Slowly. Comfortably. But with something new threading between you—something you both feel and both pretend isn’t there. His thumb brushes your waist once. Then again. Your fingers curl tighter around his.
Around you, lights glow, snow falls softly outside the window, and Octavia is absolutely losing her mind somewhere in the crowd.
The music switches— faster now, brighter, something with a beat you can actually move to. Without even thinking about it, you laugh and tug Bellamy onto the dance floor.
“Okay,” you say, already moving, “this one’s good.”
He grins, surprised. “You’re serious?”
You spin once in front of him. “I would not lie about dance-floor potential.”
And suddenly, you’re not stiff. Not nervous. Not thinking about who’s watching or what this means. You’re just… having fun.
Bellamy relaxes into it too, shoulders loosening, laughter coming easier. He’s not a polished dancer by any means, but he’s enthusiastic, and he mirrors your moves without even realizing it. You both end up laughing when he nearly steps on your foot.
“Wow,” you tease, “really sweeping me off my feet.”
“Hey,” he says, pointing at you, “you agreed to this.”
You dance around each other, bumping shoulders, clapping on the beat, moving closer and farther like you’re playing a game. It’s easy, too easy. Way better than you thought it would be.
At some point, his hands land on your waist again— casual this time, like it’s no big deal—and you don’t question it. You just lean back into him, laughing as he spins you out and back in.
That’s when Octavia appears.
“Oh, this is happening,” she announces, sliding between you and Bellamy for half a second before popping back out. “I leave you alone for one dance and suddenly you’re married.”
“O,” Bellamy groans.
You laugh harder. “You are so dramatic.”
“I’m not dramatic,” she says, grabbing Lincoln’s hand and dragging him into the circle. “I’m right. I knew it was Bellamy. I always knew.”
Lincoln chuckles, giving Bellamy an apologetic shrug as Octavia pulls him into an overly dramatic spin. “She hasn’t stopped saying that since you two walked in.”
“Because I was right,” Octavia insists, pointing at you. “The vibes were obvious.”
Bellamy shakes his head, but he’s smiling— wide and genuine— as Lincoln claps along to the beat beside him.
The four of you dance together, loose and laughing, forming a messy little group on the floor. Octavia twirls under Lincoln’s arm, nearly taking Bellamy out in the process.
“Watch it,” Bellamy laughs, hands up.
“No promises,” she shoots back.
You’re mid-laugh when someone bumps Bellamy’s shoulder. He turns just in time to catch Miller’s fist in his own.
“About time, man,” Miller says, nodding toward you. “Glad you finally got the balls to ask her out.”
You choke a little on air.
Bellamy freezes for half a second— just long enough— then recovers, grinning like it’s nothing. “Yeah, well. Better late than never.”
Miller flashes you a friendly smile. “You look great. Both of you.” Then he disappears back into the crowd.
Octavia’s eyes narrow immediately.
“Ohhh,” she says slowly, dangerously, “that is interesting.”
You point at her. “Don’t.”
She zips her lips theatrically. “For now.”
The music swells again, louder, brighter, and the four of you fall back into the rhythm. You’re laughing so hard your cheeks hurt, Bellamy spinning you again while Lincoln claps and Octavia whoops like she’s at a concert.
At some point, Bellamy leans down near your ear, voice warm and amused.
“Okay,” he says, breath brushing your skin, “I did not think this would be this fun.”
You grin, nodding. “Me neither.”
And as the lights flash and the music carries you both, you realize something quietly dangerous—
Synopsis: You and Bellamy are sent on a low stakes recon mission in the winter. When he finally parks the Rover, you find he actually took you to go see the Northern Lights.
Warnings: none, fluff
Notes: It’s Day 6 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
Word Count: 890
The heater you’d rigged back together wheezed loudly every mile like it was coughing itself back to life, but the warmth it pumped through the rover made the whole world outside feel even colder. Snow tapped lightly against the windows, melting in thin streaks down the glass. The sky was the washed-out gray of deep winter, and Bellamy kept glancing over at you like the sight of you bundled in three layers was funnier than it should’ve been.
“You know,” he said, one hand lazily draped over the wheel, “you could’ve put on that thicker jacket.”
“And you could’ve not dragged me out of the warmth of our bed this morning,” you shot back, bumping his shoulder. “But here we are.”
He smirked. “Recon waits for no one.”
You rolled your eyes, sinking deeper into the seat as another swirl of snow blurred across the road ahead. It felt good, though— being warm, being here, being with him. It had been weeks since you’d seen anything outside Arkadia’s walls that wasn’t work, food prep, or another damned meeting. The quiet made it feel like you were alone in your own little world.
You drove for about an hour before Bellamy slowed the rover and turned off onto a narrower trail. The engine hummed as it climbed between two tall ridges, snow deepening on either side, the world growing… quiet. Different.
You frowned. “This is the place Kane told you to check?”
Bellamy didn’t answer— at least not with words. He just parked, slipped on his gloves, and hopped out.
Suspicion narrowed your eyes. “Bellamy Blake, if you brought me to some frozen death pit—”
“C’mon,” he called, already rounding the rover. He opened your door, a small puff of warm air escaping into the cold. His hand curled around yours. “Just trust me.”
You stepped out, boots crunching softly into the powder. The wind hit your face, cold enough to sting, and you tucked your chin into your scarf.
“Is this the area we’re supposed to search?” you asked again.
“Look up,” he murmured.
So you did.
And the breath punched right out of your lungs.
The valley opened wide around you— dark, quiet, untouched— but the sky…
The sky was alive.
Ripples of green and soft violet shimmered across the night like someone had brushed color over the stars. They danced in slow waves, shifting and folding, glowing brighter with every second. You’d seen them before on the Ark, on distant monitors and too-far-away views through reinforced glass.
But from the ground…
From here…
It didn’t even feel real.
“Bellamy…” you whispered. “Holy shit.”
You felt him before you heard him— his arms sliding around your waist from behind, his chest pressing warmly to your back. He rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, then pressed a slow kiss to the top of your head.
You swallowed hard, turning your face up toward the sky again. “It’s beautiful,” you breathed. “I could stay here all night. I want to stay here all night. But we still have to—”
“We don’t have to,” he cut in casually.
You blinked, twisting in his hold so you could face him fully. “What do you mean ‘we don’t have to’? Where exactly is this recon point supposed to be?”
He hesitated for half a second.
“…About ten miles that way.” He jerked his thumb east.
You stared at him. “Ten miles? Bellamy!”
He winced— but only a little. “Before you get mad, I cleared it with Kane. Told him the terrain might slow us down. He said one extra day wouldn’t kill us.”
Your jaw dropped, but the shock melted almost instantly into something soft and warm in your chest. “You did all this… just to bring me here?”
“You’ve been climbing the walls for weeks.” His voice softened, shoulders lowering. “Figured you deserved to see something that wasn’t a hallway or a stack of duty reports.”
Emotion surged up too fast for you to stop it. You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. He hugged you immediately, like he’d been waiting for it, hands sliding up your back beneath your layers.
“I love you,” you murmured into the fabric of his jacket, the words spilling out before you even put any thought into them, you didn’t need to.
Bellamy froze for only a beat— then cupped the back of your head and kissed your forehead, slow and sure. “I love you too,” he breathed.
You pulled back just enough to see his face— the fire-warm eyes, the half-smile you’d fallen for, the aurora lights reflecting in his curls. Then you kissed him. Soft at first, then deeper when he tugged you closer, the cold long forgotten with him pressed against you.
When you finally pulled apart, breathless, he sat down in the snow and tugged you into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Few hours won’t hurt,” he murmured, eyes drifting back to the sky.
You leaned into him, tilting your head against his. “Yeah,” you whispered. “A few hours sounds perfect.”
So together—curled beneath the glowing waves of the northern lights— you sat. Just the two of you. Just the quiet. Just the sky painting itself new colors over and over again.
Synopsis: You, Bellamy, Octavia, Clarke, Jasper, Monty, Miller, Raven, Finn, and lexa take a winter trip up to a cabin in the woods. You can’t sleep at night so you go out to take a swim in the hot tub on the patio only to be interrupted by a certain someone.
Notes: It’s Day 5 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
Word Count: 3.6k
Borders: @uzmacchiato
You toss and turn for what felt like the millionth time, your muscles aching from all the skiing you attempted during the day. All the rest of the group were asleep in their respective bedrooms, Octavia fast asleep in the bed next to you, softly snoring.
You couldn’t ignore the fact that you couldn’t sleep anymore, your muscles hurt, you were kinda hungry, and you already finished the glass of water on your nightstand, you might as well just get up.
Reluctantly, you carefully peel the covers from you and quietly remove yourself from the bed, being sure not to disturb your best friend in the bed even though she was the deepest sleeper you knew.
Getting up, you grab your cup and your fuzzy robe and take a peak out the curtains and into the dark and snowy forest. Your window on the second floor overlooked the back patio which was dusted with a layer of snow. You were surprised to see that the hot tub was on.
Maybe Jasper and Monty forgot to turn it off when they went outside earlier, they did mention the hot tub earlier, the thought crossed your mind.
The steaming, bubbling, glowing small body of water looked enticing and deliciously warm, just what you needed to soothe the ache in your muscles. Without a second thought more, you quietly grabbed your bikini from your suitcase and slipped it on, covering it up with your thick robe on top. You slide on your house shoes and head downstairs to the kitchen.
The downstairs is silent, save for the soft buzzing coming from the hot tub on the other side of the sliding glass door that made up the kitchen wall. There was a soft glow cast along the patio and kitchen, and you filled up your glass of water, taking a big gulp as you readied yourself to face the cold air on the way into the hot tub. Quickly, you braced yourself for the noise that the door made as you slid it open, you shut it behind you with a soft click as it pushed into place.
The cold air that hit you was immediate, you could already feel your nose turning a soft shade of pink, a shiver ran through your body.
You noted the difference in sound from the kitchen. Outside it was loud, the tree leaves brushed together in the shallow breeze, the creatures of the woods creating a soft symphonic backtrack that mixed with the bubbling hot tub.
Quickly you made your way to the tub, seeing its steaming surface you slid off your robe, hanging it over a chair and kicked off your house shoes as you stepped up the small steps and into the water. You immediately felt the warmth of the water and submerged your now shivering body into the water up to your chin, not even needing time to acclimate slowly. The feeling was amazing and it had you sighing in relief, your muscles feeling like they released a sigh at the same time.
You waded in the water for a few moments, just relishing in the warmth that surrounded your body. After a little bit, you decided to submerge your head under the water, your nose and cheeks feeling almost ice cold. You dunked your head under the surface for a solid 30 seconds, pressing the heels of your palms to your closed eyes when the warmth of the water was too much on them. Only when your lungs screamed for air did you come up out of the water. You faced the trees and swiped the water from your face and down your hair.
“Can’t sleep either?”
The sudden voice startled you, your stomach dropping as you whirled around to face its origin, the water around you splashing at the motion.
You cursed in relief when you saw it was only Bellamy.
He chuckles “My bad, didn’t mean to scare you.”
You sag “No, no you’re fine. But yea I couldn’t sleep either I guess.” You take in his appearance, his flushed cheeks, shirtless torso, and swim trunk clad thighs, goosebumps ran along the arms that held a towel. Suddenly you connected the dots.
“Oh my god. Did you turn this thing on? I thought maybe Monty and Jasper forgot to turn it off.”
He shook his head with a smile, “With Miller snoring so loud across the room, I figured I should get in a little swim. I was surprised to see that someone had beaten me to it while I changed.”
Your cheeks flushed but you decided that you could blame it on the cold. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn't mean to steal your first dip.” You place your hands on your cheeks in slight embarrassment, “But I have no qualms with sharing, after all the tub is definitely big enough for the both of us. You are still welcome.”
“How gracious of you,” he says with a laugh as he sets down his towel and climbs in, cursing at the temperature change. Once he’s fully in the water, he brings handfuls of water to wet his face.
Silence falls between the two of you and you start to think.
The two of you had never really been alone like this. You’d always had a bit of a crush on him, but being Octavia’s best friend, you always just thought he thought of you as such, his little sisters best friend.
You’d mentioned to Octavia once that you thought her brother was cute, and you vowed it to be the last time because she wouldn’t let it go for three weeks straight, always talking about how you needed to get together, but you knew he’d never want you like that.
Sure you guys had fun times together with the entire group, but never alone. There were times where you caught him looking at you or smiling a little too much at a joke you made but that could all be coincidence, after all, you could have caught him in eye contact all those times just because of the sheer amount of time you spent looking at him.
After a few quiet moments he speaks up, a smile poking at his lips “I can’t believe you just thought someone happened to leave the hot tub on for you,” he chuckles and you groan.
“Oh shut up, you know damn well Jasper could’ve forgotten to turn it off.”
He has a smirk on his face, “Come on. They’ve practically been passed out since we got back from the slopes.”
With a groan you splash a little water at him, “Whatever, make fun of me in my sore and sleep deprived state,” you say with a palm facing him in faux annoyance.
“Cute,” he says, and you swallow. He doesn’t usually say things like that.
“You find my struggle cute?” You say with an eyebrow raised, he just smirks and looks away, his tongue running over his top teeth under his lips and he splashes you a little bit, the warm water getting in your face.
You gasp, “Oh so you wanna play that right now?”
He looks back at you to see you’ve moved a little closer to him, he smiles and puts his hands up in surrender, “Hey, no let’s be nice, I’m sorry.”
You laugh at his sad attempt to get out of being splashed, “No you’re not getting out of this Bellamy.”
You move forward and splash him once, but when you try to do it again he surges forwards and grabs hold of your wrists, his grip strong, pulling you just a little closer to him, your faces inches apart. You let out a squeak and your lips part in surprise
“Hey, let's be nice, ok. We’re even.” His voice is quiet and breathy and you take in the droplets of water that glistened on his face, his long eyelashes clumping together in unfairly beautiful spikes.
“Whatever you say boss,” you manage to breathe out with a light chuckle. When he fails to release his grip on your wrists after a few moments, you speak up again “Bellamy, you can let me go now.”
“Can I?” He says, a light smirk slowly makes its way onto his face, you swallow visibly and he lowers your hands back into the water, releasing them with a lingering touch.
Your hands float limply to your sides and you are the first to look away. You turn away from him swimming to the side of the tub that overlooks the trees facing away from the house.
It’s silent for a few beats.
“…Did I do something?” He asks unsure and you blink, surprised and turn to face him. He looked kind of concerned.
“What? No. Why would you think that?”
He gives a tight, quiet shrug. “You swam away from me.”
Your breath snags. You weren’t expecting him to notice. You certainly weren’t expecting him to bring it up. “I just… needed a second.”
He nods slowly, jaw working like he’s trying to decide if he should keep talking. “If us being alone out here makes you uncomfortable, I can go.”
Your head whips toward him. “No. That’s not it. It’s not that.”
He looks up sharply at the tone of your voice. His eyes search yours— careful, unreadable, a little too intense. “Then what is it?” He asks.
“Stop doing that.” You say and his head moves back just a little bit in confusion.
“Stop doing what?”
You suck your teeth, feeling your cheeks and ears grow warmer, “Stop looking at me like that.”
His brows draw in confusion “Like what?”
“Bellamy… come on. Don’t— don’t play dumb.”
He moves an inch closer. “No, really. Tell me. How am I looking at you?” He takes another step closer, you shrink back a little bit, the tension rising and your confidence fading slightly. “Like you’re funny? Annoying?” he pauses and licks his lips, “Or like you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen?”
Your breath hitches further “Oh stop. You don’t—you don’t mean that. You’re just messing with me.”
You look around, anywhere but at him, trying to see if he's playing some sick joke.
He leads your face back to his with a hand on your chin, “I’m dead serious right now.”
You shake your head, eyes dropping. “Bellamy… I’m just your sister’s best friend. That’s all I’ve ever been to you.”
A soft scoff leaves him— hurt and frustrated. “You know that's not all you are. Not to me. You haven’t been for a long time.”
You freeze. “I–I don’t– You’re being serious?”
The words leave your mouth in near gasps, and as an answer, he just moves even closer, until the tips of your noses are touching, you feel his warm breath fanning over your lips, a welcoming contrast to the biting cold of the night air. You search his face frantically, looking for any sign of a joke. A trap. A misunderstanding.
You find none.
He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to back away. You don’t. His nose brushes yours— barely— and you gasp.
Then his mouth finds yours. It’s soft at first. Testing. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he pushes too fast. You freeze for half a second— shocked— but then your hand slips up his shoulder, and you kiss him back.
He exhales against your lips, relieved and wrecked all at once. His forehead rests against yours.
“Does that answer your question? I like you.” You are at a loss for words, so he keeps doing the talking for you. A rough whisper meets your ears, “I feel like I shouldn’t want you.” Another soft kiss. “…but I do.”
You barely have time to breathe before he goes back in, deeper this time, hands finding your waist under the water.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing yours. “Tell me to stop.”
You don’t.
You can’t.
He kisses your lips with fervor, like he's tasted something and can't help himself now that he has. His lips are soft and wet and deliciously sweet, you miss them when he separates to kiss along your jaw.
“Tell me to stop,” he repeats, and still you don’t.
He kisses down your neck, licking and sucking on the tender skin while his hands travel down your waist, settling on your hips as his fingers skim over the strings of your bikini bottoms. Your fingers thread themselves through his hair and you feel his strong hands grasp onto your ass with a squeeze.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, mouth breaking apart from your neck as his fingertips breach the surface of the small piece of cloth covering your lower half.
You pull his head up by his hair, a small groan coming from his lips as he looks you in your eyes, question and want swim through his brown orbs.
“Bell…” you whisper with conviction, “I don’t want you to stop.”
His eyes bore into yours for a moment, relief and desire clear in them. Only a second passed before your mouths met in a bruising kiss, like you had both been waiting years for this very moment.
His hands reached for your ass, running them down your thighs and hoisting you up so your hips met and your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. He stood up fully and you felt the chill of the night air on your back, goosebumps spreading over your entire torso.
Bellamy walked over to the side of the tub with you pressed against him until you felt your back hit the wall of the tub, your ass sliding into a seat on the underwater bench. He didn't break the kiss once, your neck now tilted up to meet his lips as he stood.
After a few moments of the heated kiss, you felt his hand leave your thigh and travel back up to your waist, slowly moving up to your breast, only then does his mouth leave yours.
“Is this ok? He asks tentatively as his head falls to kiss the soft tissue of your breast that's not covered by your bathing suit.
You shudder a breath with a nod and he lowers himself to his knees, his head and upper torso still sticking out of the water. You feel his hands move again, this time to grasp onto the strings of your bikini bottoms, giving them a little tug.
“How about this?” he breathes.
You gulp, “That’s more than ok, Bell.” He pulls both ties loose at the same time, letting the piece of fabric float away from where it clung to your body. Fingers ghost over the crevice where your thighs meet your pelvis and goosebumps spread over your chest, this time not because of the cold air.
Bellamy notices the goosebumps on your chest and scoots impossibly forward on his knees to swipe his tongue over them, leaving a kiss on your skin as he stops.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes and your cheeks heat up, you were still clothed from what he could see above the water, “so beautiful.”
You gasp as his thumb presses against your clit tentatively, your mouth opening at the sudden feeling. He presses kisses to your chest and collarbone, his thumb slowly starting to circle the small bundle of nerves between your legs, the sensation leaving you breathing heavily.
Your hands travel back into his hair, fingers intertwining with the strands and he lifts his head back up to meet your lips once again in a sweet but heated kiss.
When you feel one of his thick fingers nudge at your entrance, your mouth opens slightly and he takes the moment to slide it in, you relish in the feeling, enjoying the small stretch it gives you.
He starts a slow rhythm pulling them in and out as you try your hardest to continue kissing him. He adds another finger and you moan out loud. He shuts you up with a kiss on the lips.
“Shhh,” he says, pressing a kiss on your cheek as he whispers in your ear, “We don't want to wake the others.”
You had forgotten that any people other than the two of you existed in the world, too caught up in the unforgettable moment, you nod your head with a small strangled hum of agreement.
“Good,” he practically growls.
The task seemed hard to complete, with the way his fingers moved in and out of your pussy, curling inward when his knuckles reached your entrance, it made it very hard to keep quiet. Breathy moans left you as he sped up his pace and you spread your legs a little farther apart, it seemed to allow him to get even deeper, hitting the soft tissue deep in your pussy.
He adds a third finger and you try not to cry out at the stretch, your hands pulling his face back to yours so he could swallow the noise. His pace gets faster and you feel the quickly tightening feeling growing in your lower stomach. It only takes a few more strokes for the feeling to crest over, a wave of pleasure crashing over you, Bellamy swallows all of your sounds with his mouth.
“Fuck,” you swore, the pleasure subsiding when your lips broke apart and he pulled his fingers from inside you, looking into your eyes with something that you’d never seen occupying them. His eyes were so dark you would have thought they were black had not already spent so much time looking at them to know they were brown.
Your hands moved from his hair and traveled down his biceps, to his chest, and down his abs, really feeling him up for the first time.
His hard muscles contracted under your touch in the water and his breath hitched as your fingertips slipped under the fabric of his shorts. You pull him forward, his hips meeting yours and you feel his large clothed erection against your core.
Looking into his eyes, you slowly pull his shorts down to his thighs, “I want you Bellamy,” his adams apple visibly bobbed at your words, his eyes practically rolling back at your next words, “Right now.”
With little effort, he immediately pushed his shorts down the rest of the way, bringing his lips back to yours.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to hear you say that,” he rasps and a small disbelieving moan leaves your lips.
Some part of you still couldn’t believe this was actually happening, but the nudging of the tip of his cock on your entrance felt all too real to be a dream.
He didn’t push in immediately, instead he waited, looking into your eyes, “Are you sure?” he asked.
You press a sweet kiss to his lips, breaking away, you whisper with conviction “Bellamy. I need you, right now.”
That was all the confirmation he needed, seconds later he was pushing his length past the entrance of your core, slowly sliding in, inch by inch.
You both curse out loud, forgetting momentarily that you are supposed to be quiet. By the time he bottoms out, his balls pressed against the soft skin of your ass, you are both gasping for air, the sensation blinding with pleasure.
“Shit” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” You mewl at his words, hands grasping onto his biceps as you adjust to his size.
“Are you ok?” he asks, taking in your closed eyes and agape mouth.
You open your eyes, meeting his concerned gaze and you nod, “I–I’m ok, you can start moving now.” He pecks your lips and slowly pulls all the way back out, stopping when the tip threatens to pop out completely, before he slowly slid himself all the way back in, sheathing himself completely in your warmth. You stifle a moan in the crook of his neck and he plants his face in yours.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, “like you were made for me.”
“Fuck, Bell,” you moan quietly at his words. He continues moving, creating a painfully slow pace, and now that you had adjusted to the size of his cock, you found yourself wanting more.
“Faster.”
He listened to your command immediately, speeding up his pace and you felt that familiar ball of tension form in the base of your stomach. He was hitting so deep within you, deeper than you had ever felt, deeper than you ever thought was possible.
He grunted as he sped up his pace even more, mumbling filthy words into your ears. You stifled your growing moans with your mouth against his bare shoulder, your teeth sure to leave a mark.
His tempo increases, quickly going from fast and controlled, to sloppy and stuttering.
“Fuck–Shit–I–cant hold on much longer.” He rasps and you feel the tightening cord of tension and pleasure begin to snap within you.
“Bell— I’m gonna cu–fuck,” you hiss, the breath leaving you as you found your release once again, the wave pleasure washing over you.
Bellamy’s strokes start to stutter to a stop as he too finds his release, pumping himself a few more times inside of you to milk him with the contractions of your orgasm.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, his forehead coming to rest against your own. You pull him in for yet another kiss, this one is sweet and slow, portraying words you haven't yet said. He kisses back just as sweet. When you break apart you kiss him on the cheek and pull back with a timid smile on your face.
“If it wasn't already clear, I really like you too.”
santa doesn’t know you like i do - bucky barnes x reader
𝖜𝖈 1k words
𝖘𝖚𝖒 bucky frustrates the reader after making them jealous— as payback, they throw a snowball at him. this quickly turns into a full-on battle, and soon the jealousy and anger is long gone and replaced with sopping wet clothes and wind-bitten noses..
𝖈𝖜 bit of angst, fluff, jealous!reader, oblivious!bucky, communication is a relationship’s greatest friend folks!
𝖆𝖓 - Day 4 of 12 DAYS OF BUCKMAS!!! This series is a collaboration with my best friend @murdocksbitchh!! Go read her version of today RIGHT NOW!! :) technically, this fic ties into some of the others (days 6 and day 12!)
By Bucky’s books, everything was going swell. A late morning spent in town, after falling back to bed a few times with you. Picking Christmas gifts for friends— and him taking mental notes of things you liked. You smiled just fine, the kind of expression that lit up the room as you always did. Your hand found his, warm, safe, grounding. He certainly didn’t like the big crowds of people, but you eased the knot in his stomach just by, well, being yourself. Bubbly, happy, almost carefree. But cautious, and aware, as well. You knew when he was ticking like a timebomb, when he needed a break, and you always guided him somewhere quiet.
And then you got coffee. You walked in just fine, let Bucky order for you and pay, but walked out frowning. His hand, outside of the coffee, was empty— you were peeling back from him. But Bucky just couldn’t understand why. He didn’t pry too hard, just a little nudge with his shoulder to mouth, “You okay?”
You nodded in reply, lips pursed into a thin line. So not fine. You just followed him, hands shoved in your coat pockets— he must’ve messed up badly, to draw you into a silent passive aggressive state. Most of the time, you were up for open communication about mistakes; making things right the good way. The adult way. Bucky’s jaw twitched, irritated. He genuinely couldn’t recall what he could’ve done.
Two can play that game. He hated icing you out, really. It killed the deepest part of him slowly, but his gloved hands found his peacoat’s pockets, and he took sure, heavy steps through the snow-lined streets. You made a noise behind him; something indignant. You started walking faster; he could hear the pads of your boots breaking through the snow and onto concrete.
“Buck—” you called after him. His lips turned upwards just a bit. It had worked, he was drawing you out. But it wasn’t enough, not yet. He continued walking. It was a push and pull now, who would reveal more. He needed information, and you wouldn’t give that up so easily.
When he didn’t stop, you did. Your fingers trembled, not from cold, but from frustration. The nerve!
Bucky stopped walking when he realized you weren’t following him. Nor were you revealing any more information. He turned to face you and—
A frigid, well-packed snowball hit him square in the handsome face. He froze. The gears in his 100-year-old brain were struggling to comprehend what had just occurred. You stood, arm still out from when you’d thrown the snowball at him, something proud and a bit arrogant on your face.
Well, you had his attention now. “That was for being way too friendly with the barista.”
“What?” He rubbed his cheek, swiping some melting snow off his face.
“God,” You rubbed your temples, “You’re oblivious, I swear. She was flirting with you, Bucky. Big time!”
“She was just friendly.” Bucky thought about the way the barista had been behaving. Leaning over the counter, hanging onto his every word, and…
Oh. She was flirting.
“Friendly, my ass.” You were packing another snowball in your hands, “She was all over you. Which is fair, because you’re so handsome, but it’s your job to like, affirm that we’re dating. It’s just common knowledge.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
He’d focused on the wrong part, and so he earned another snowball, this time to his chest. The snow splattered against his coat, cold and wet. Bucky grumbled something, and then started making a snowball of his own; his fingers fumbled with it, having been seriously out of practice. By at least seventy years. But still, it was an easy enough concept to work through, and he soon had his own weapon.
You squealed before the snowball hit you; very much not hard, but you reacted as though an asteroid had just hit you. “You have superstrength, jackass!”
Bucky laughed, “Sweetheart, I didn’t even try to throw it.”
“It hurt! I’m gonna bruise, Buck!” You tried to remain angry against the beauty of his smiles; dimples breaking through his stubble. A small giggle escaped you, before it snowballed– your fingers shaking as you made another snowball. But when you threw it, Bucky ducked out of the way. He was already armed, and his weapon hit you right in the face.
You gasped, outraged. “Oh, it is so on, James!”
“Full name, I’m absolutely terrified.”
“Cocky—”
Another snowball hit you, this time gentler, in the shoulder. Bucky closed the gap between you two in the time it took for you to get over. His fingers carefully brushed the snow off your cheek, off your shoulder, and off your chest.
“Sorry.” He said softly, “For being so…”
“Dense?”
Bucky grumbled. “Right.”
“It’s okay. Sorry for being so…”
“Stubborn.” He offered.
“Touche.” You reached your arms around his waist, pulling him into a hug. “Trouce?”
“Surrender accepted.” Bucky’s arms found your waist. You gently kicked his foot, one last drop of fight left in you.
“That was not me surrendering.” Your cheek pressed into his warm, solid chest.
Bucky chuckled, a low sound that rumbled against your face. “Mhm.”
“I love you, Buck. I think I’m just scared you’ll find something… someone better.” You shrug.
Bucky’s grip tightens. “Better? Then you?”
“Yeah, I’m not—”
“No.” He sounded sure, a little peeved. “Doll, there’s no one I’d ever want more than you. You love me when it’s hard. You love me when I’m five steps away from breaking down. You know my past, and you love me regardless. And you even love me when I’m too in my own head to see some barista hitting on me.”
“That’s really sweet.” You sigh, pulling away to look in his eyes; an extremely genuine look on his features. “But seriously, next time, do something romantic. Oh! Call me your wife! That’ll show the next pushy barista!”
Bucky chuckled, “Maybe I will.”
He didn’t tell you about the ring in his back pocket, or his intentions to make that title something real, but for now he’d let it go.
Synopsis: Winter quickly approached Arkadia, but today is the first day you've actually seen snow since being on the ground. You force Bellamy to get up and join you to see it.
Warnings: none, fluff
Notes: It’s Day 4 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
Word Count: 1.1k
Borders: @cursed-carmine
It’s early— so early the sky is barely a shade of blue. You’re half asleep when you stretch, rubbing your eyes, about to roll over and cocoon yourself deeper into the blankets…
Then you see it.
A white flurry drifting past the window.
You blink once. Twice. Harder. You sit upright so fast your head spins.
No. No way. That can’t be—
You scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over your boots by the door, pushing the curtain aside with both hands.
Snow.
Actual snow.
Not drawings in old books. Not the digital projections kids saw on the Ark. Not the flakes people described when reminiscing about the old world.
Real. Actual. Falling-from-the-sky snow.
Your breath leaves your lungs in a shocked gasp, and without pausing long enough to think, you whip around and rush to the other side of the room.
“Bellamy,” you whisper loudly, already shaking his shoulder. “Bellamy— Bellamy get up—”
He groans, rolling onto his stomach. “Mmmf…what? What time is it?”
“Time for you to get UP.”
You keep shaking him until his eyes barely crack open, puffy with sleep, hair flattened on one side from the pillow. His voice is gravelly, worn from deep sleep.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“There’s snow!” you say like it’s the most urgent, catastrophic thing in the world.
Bellamy squints. “…Snow?”
“Yes!” you whisper-shout. “REAL snow, Bellamy. It’s falling. It’s actually falling. Right now. Outside.”
A pause.
Then he lifts his head an inch off the pillow, stares at you through barely opened eyes, and gives the softest, sleepiest smile. “You’re serious?”
“Does it LOOK like I’m joking?” You’re already grabbing your jacket, hopping on one foot as you jam your boot onto the other. “Get up! Come see!”
Bellamy groans into the mattress— but he’s smiling. That small, warm smile he gets when you’re excited about something. The one he couldn’t hide even if he tried. He drags himself out of bed, pulling on his shirt, then his pants and jacket, then his boots, yawning the entire time.
“You’re like a kid on their birthday,” he teases quietly. “You sure you don’t want to wake all of Arkadia too?”
“I will if you keep moving this slow,” you shoot back, practically vibrating with anticipation.
“Alright, alright,” he laughs, tightening his jacket. “Lead the way before you explode.”
You do. Practically sprinting down the hall, only slowing enough so Bellamy doesn’t lose you in your own storm of excitement. You push open the door and—
A blast of cold air smacks you right in the face.
Your breath catches.
The world is white and quiet and soft. Fat flakes drift lazily through the air, sparkling in the early light. The ground is thinly coated but already building, turning the dirt path into a shimmering blanket.
It’s like stepping into a dream.
“Oh my God…” you breathe, stepping forward slowly, almost reverently. “It’s beautiful.”
Behind you, Bellamy stands in the doorway, watching you with a tenderness he doesn’t even bother to hide. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe, smiling faintly as you spin once in the light dusting.
“You okay?” he calls softly.
You turn to him, eyes bright like stars. “Okay? Bellamy— it’s SNOW. I’ve only ever read about it. I never thought I’d actually…see it.”
He steps out onto the porch, boots crunching.
You take two more steps forward and then drop backward into the soft whiteness.
Bellamy startles. “Whoa—hey—”
“I’m fine!” you laugh up at him, already sweeping your arms out. “I’m making a snow angel!”
“A what?” He shakes his head, smiling helplessly. “Of course you are.”
You drag your arms and legs through the snow, carving wings and a little halo. When you stand up, brushing your coat off, you turn around toward Bellamy—
SMACK.
A cold, wet explosion hits the back of your head.
You freeze.
You blink snow out of your eyelashes.
You slowly turn around.
Bellamy stands ten feet away, already shaping a second snowball in his gloved hands, the absolute audacity written right across his face.
Your jaw drops. “Did you just—?!”
He grins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You stare at him, disbelief morphing into a grin of your own. “Bellamy Blake…” You bend down, gathering snow between your palms. “You don’t know what you’ve just started.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, we’re doing this now?”
“Oh,” you say, packing your snowball tight, “we’re absolutely doing this.”
You throw.
He dodges— barely— but it still clips his shoulder. He stumbles, laughing as he ducks behind a half-buried bench.
“You missed!” he shouts.
“I hit you!” you shout back.
“You barely hit me!”
“That still counts!”
He pops up from behind the bench, throws his own snowball, and you yelp as it explodes against your leg.
“That was on purpose!” you accuse.
“That’s the POINT!” Bellamy laughs.
Suddenly you’re both running— darting behind trees, slipping on the growing layer of snow, pelting each other with cold, chaotic ammunition. Your laughter echoes through the quiet forest. Bellamy’s cheeks are flushed pink, curls full of snow, breath coming out in happy little clouds.
“You look ridiculous!” you yell.
“Says the one who’s losing!” he fires back.
“You wish!”
You pitch another snowball—he ducks—he lunges—and suddenly, you skid backward as Bellamy tackles you gently into the snow. You let out a surprised scream that quickly dissolves into laughter as you land on your back, Bellamy bracing his weight over you so he doesn’t crush you.
Snow falls softly around you, flakes catching in his hair and eyelashes. He’s smiling down at you like he’s seeing something more magical than the first snowfall.
Your heartbeat thunders.
He’s so close you can feel the warmth of his breath in the cold air. His cheeks are flushed from the chase, his eyes bright, warm, impossibly soft.
“You okay?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead.
“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling up at him. “More than okay.”
Bellamy lets out a breath, leaning in a little more. “Good. Because I don’t want this moment to end.”
Your fingers curl into the front of his jacket, pulling him the last inch closer. His nose brushes yours—soft, cold, perfect.
Then he kisses you.
A sweet, warm, breath-stealing kiss in the middle of falling snow. His lips gentle at first, then deeper, fuller, as his hand cradles your jaw. You kiss him back with a quiet little sigh, snow melting against your skin, everything around you fading into nothing but him.
When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
You smile, breath clouding in the cold between you. “I love you more.”
Bellamy steals another soft kiss— just because he can.
And the snow keeps falling, blanketing the world in white, as if it was made just for the two of you.
never (ever) coming home - winter solider x reader
santa doesn’t know you like i do - bucky barnes x reader
𝖜𝖈 2k words
𝖘𝖚𝖒 a winter vacation is quickly interrupted with the reader finds a mysterious man laid upon the snow; cold, unmoving, and certainly not speaking.
𝖈𝖜 fluff/angst/sfw
𝖆𝖓 - Day 3 of 12 DAYS OF BUCKMAS!!! This series is a collaboration with my best friend @murdocksbitchh!! GO READ HER VERSION OF THIS FIC, BUT STARING THE CHARACTER BELLAMY BLAKE FROM THE 100!
This trip was supposed to be relaxing. You’d put in your time off months ago, the first bit of PTO you’d taken in how many years? Everything had been booked that long too, each day meticulously scratched off, all winding down to today. And the last few days, in all fairness, had been ideal. Just blankets of snow on the mountain side, perfect for hiking or skiing or snowboarding; really whatever you fancied. The cabin itself was separate from the ski resort on paper; but it was close enough that you could walk to the slopes, and hear people cheering from the front porch.
It was nice to get some time all by yourself, just focusing on taking care of your mental health. In truth, you’d been working yourself to the bone to help others. You’d gone as far as turning off your phone to really feel the isolation— the lack of responsibility, or people who needed you to assist them in (usually) petty things.
And then he happened.
At first, you thought he might be an animal. This trail was known for lots of wildlife; part of why you walked it so often was the appeal of seeing deer. But as you got closer, you realized that he was very much human-shaped. Panic filled your bones as you rushed to his side— he was lying with his back to a tree, breathing ragged, eyes… like a caged animal’. So vacant, so afraid.
Your heart twisted up in your chest. “Are you okay?”
Dumb question. He didn’t answer, his eyes just darted to your face. Something vulnerable, almost like fear, flared in his features; or what you could see of them behind his muzzle-like mask. You reached for his gloved hand, and there was no warmth to be felt behind it. His whole body tensed when you touched him, “Oh man, oh man— you’re really cold… how long have you been out here? Are you lost?”
He withdrew his hand quickly, still saying nothing— as though your concern burned him, physically. “We need to get you inside,” You stood up from where you’d knelt in front of him, snow melting into your pants. You grabbed his hand, the other one, and—
It was heavy. Solid. Not in the way skin was, no… it felt like metal. Your breath hitched in your throat. He didn’t move to withdraw it from your grasp, no, in fact it looked like he was growing more and more distant with each second that passed. You didn’t care about whether his arm was metal or not, when that look of silent resignation came over his face, in fact, you tugged harder, trying to urge him to his feet. He stood on shaky legs, and you quickly wrapped his arm around your shoulders to prop him up; though he was much heavier than you were.
You half-dragged, half-walked him to your cabin— thankfully avoiding anyone else. His prior resistance to the physical touch seemed gone now, as his sturdy frame trembled against yours; shivering with his whole body, as if he’d just now been given permission to feel the cold.
When you finally get him into the cabin, you’re afraid he’s going to die right there on the couch. He’s not moving; not a lot, just following you with his eyes weakly; as though in another situation, you’d be the vulnerable one. And, of course, he still refused to talk.
“I’m gonna go run a hot bath— it’ll warm you up the quickest.” You explained, moving frantically, reaching for the one blanket you’d brought, and slinging it over his lap. A funny contrast to the black layers and tactical gear he was wearing. Whoever he was, it was becoming less and less likely that he was just a hiker who got lost. But that didn’t matter all that much, because he was still someone who needed help.
Carefully, you turned the bathtub knobs enough to warm him; but not scald, and then you shuffled through your clothes to find anything that might help; settling on a very oversized hoodie on you that his figure might fit into, and a pair of pajama pants you’d stolen from your dad several years ago. When the water was sufficiently prepared, you eased him off the couch, and into the bathroom. “Can you—” Your breath hitched in your throat, “Er… do you think you can undress yourself? I don’t mind helping, there’s a lot of complex layers.”
The man blinked, and then his fingers tried to undo all the clasps containing him. He failed; and when you peeled his glove back, you found blue tipped fingers. As you peeled the next glove off, you froze for a moment; as you’d suspected, his left fingers were made of metal that traveled up into the confines of his shirt.
Something like fear flared up in his eyes. His metal fingers twitched, almost like they were fighting violence. Your own senses flared up, backing away. “I’m not… I don’t care.” You gestured to the metal arm, “Just let me help you. I won’t mention it.”
His eyes wavered, but his arm softened. You stepped forward again, and reached for the clasps of his vest. “Can I?”
He nodded, slowly and unsure of himself. Like he needed permission to be helped. “Okay, it’s gonna get colder for a second, but the bath will help.” Soon, you’d worked his vest, and the tactical shirt underneath— seriously, why was he out here in all this gear? It was like he was prepared for war.
The taut lines of his muscles didn’t help with that theory. Scars riddled his fair skin, as if he’d been through immense fighting. Some were shaped like slash wounds, others bullet holes. Your heart thudded in your ears. Just who are you?
“I’ll look away.” You turned around, “So you can take off your… uhm… pants.”
Fabric shuffled around a little bit, and then the water bowed under weight. He slid into the bath, and let out what felt like an involuntary sigh of relief. When you turned around, you reached for his mask, still on even though he was naked otherwise— but his fingers wrapped around your wrist, eyes hardened. You let your fingers fall away from his mask, and he let you go— somewhat reminding you of a cat.
“Mask stays on. Understood.” You nodded, “I’ll uhm— leave you to it.” You reached for his clothes. “I left some clothes on the counter— just change into them. I’ll run these all through the dryer. Take as much time as you need, okay? I’ll make something to eat.”
He didn’t say anything, just nodded silently as if he were forbidden to speak. With his clothes in the dryer, you busied yourself heating up some oven-ready foods; having not wanted to bring groceries and take a break from serious cooking for the vacation. You feel somewhat childish now, heating up chicken tenders in the oven when there was someone to be fed.
After about a half hour, and with food set out on the table, the stranger reappeared. The clothes were just a tad too small on him, but he looked significantly better; his flesh hand was red from being in the hot water, and his eyes had softened somewhat.
“How are you feeling?” You asked. He gave no reply, so you waved to the plates, “Dinner’s ready! Nothing fancy, but… it’s warm. And fresh-adjacent. As fresh as oven ready fried chicken can be, at least.”
He stared at the food like it was of alien origin.
“Not a fan of chicken tenders?” You chuckled bashfully, scratching the back of your neck. “I have some leftovers, if you’d prefer…?”
The stranger’s fingers flexed, curling before unfurling themselves. “…Why?” His voice was rough, as if it had been a long time since he’d spoken. So caught off guard by his sudden speaking, you blinked twice before speaking again.
“Uh— ‘why’?” You probed. He looked away from the food, and into your eyes. He took two steps towards you, until he was right in front of you. His arm was extended to you partially, halfway reaching for you.
“Why are you—” He sucked in a breath, through clenched teeth. “Helping me?”
You became even more confused, “Because you needed it?”
It was like you’d just hit him across the face, the way he coiled away. Like he was scared, or hurt, or both. The words had burned him more than water ever could and now the skittish, animalistic look was back in his eyes.
“Hey,” you stepped forward, “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I can call the police, if you’d rather? I know I can’t help that much, they’ll be much more—”
“No.” His answer was quick, “No cops.”
“Right… okay.” You were a bit scared. Tactical gear, scars, metal arm. If he was afraid or skeptical of the cops helping him, the likelihood of him being dangerous increased. As if they hadn’t been strong enough since. Stepping forward, you were nothing if not stubborn when it came to helping others.
You reached for his arm. His eyes narrowed at the contact, but he didn’t jerk away. You trailed your fingers down his flesh arm, and then squeezed his large hand. “I’m not sure you are. It doesn’t really matter. You were gonna die if I left you out there. I dunno why you think you don’t deserve the bare minimum but… you’re another person. A living human. You deserve help as much as anyone else.”
“Thank you.” His voice is small, and he steps forward just an inch. His body is still stiff, but his metal hand comes to your cheek, thumb gently running over the skin in a ghost of affection. He mumbles something in Russian.
You reach for his mask. He lets you take it off, this time. It falls to the floor, revealing a beautiful; but haunted face. A ghost of stubble brushes his jaw, lips rosy, eyes framed by soft lashes. The years have manifested as lines in the corners of his eyes, a frown etched into his face— but truly no word can describe him other than beautiful. In the way broken things are. A million pieces of something he couldn’t remember, all culminating into the masterpiece you saw today.
His eyes bear into yours, no longer all that scared. Just a beautiful blue, something kind in them, buried under years of what you couldn’t even imagine. You leaned in without realizing, until your breath ghosted against his lips. His breath hitched in his throat.
“Sorry, I—”, you went to apologize, but soon his lips were against yours, stealing the words from his lips. It was a gentle connection, soft and cautious. And then the kiss was gone, just as quick as it had come. He looked conflicted, torn and at war. He peeled away, reached for his mask, and put it back on.
“I need to leave.” His voice was still rough, his words more chopped now. “They’ll be looking for me.”
“Who?” Your fingers fluttered over your lips, “Can’t you just stay and eat?”
“No. It’s not safe.” He was in the laundry room now, and you looked away as he slipped into his no doubt still damp gear. He fumbled around with all the tactical things you’d left on top of the washing machine; having been unsure what to do with them.
“I don’t even know your name.” You whispered. The fear returned to his eyes, and he was at the door in seconds.
“Forget about me.” He turned to look one last time. “Please. They’ll kill you if they find out.”
“Kill—” The door shut before you could finish the sentence. And as if he’d just.. disappeared, beyond it lay only snow, tumbling to the ground in fat, lazy flakes. Your lips tingled, remembering the softness of his against them, the light scratch of his stumble.
Maybe it is safer to heed his warning. Maybe you should’ve left him in the snow, to begin with. But one thing was sure; you would never forget him.
Synopsis: You and Bellamy go on a Snowboarding trip together… Bellamy sucks at snowboarding.
Warnings: none, fluff
Notes: It’s Day 3 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
Word Count: 1.3k
Dividers:@cursed-carmine, @chateaubarnes
Bellamy hits the ground again with a thud so tragic you feel it in your own spine. Snow puffs up around him like the universe is adding insult to injury. He doesn’t move. At all. Just lies there spread out like a fallen action figure.
“I can’t,” he groans, voice muffled under his jacket collar. “I actually can’t do this. My body’s not meant to bend this way. Snowboards are a scam. Snow is a scam. Gravity is a scam.”
You’re standing upright next to him, not even breathing hard, board angled casually in the snow. You take a slow sip of air— nice, crisp, mountain-fresh— because someone here deserves to enjoy this, and apparently it won’t be him.
“Funny,” you say, looking down at him like he’s a wounded soldier you reluctantly agreed to rescue. “Because for the last two weeks, someone wouldn’t shut up about how excited he was to ‘crush this trip.’”
Bellamy cracks one eye open, offended. “I was excited.”
“You made a countdown on the fridge.”
“So? People make countdowns.”
“Bellamy,” you say, crouching beside him. “You made a paper chain.”
He just blinks at the sky, thinking about the choices that led him here. “In theory, I thought it’d be fun.”
You pat his shoulder sympathetically. “In theory, you’re coordinated.”
He lets out a broken noise that might be a laugh or might be him dying. Hard to tell with Bellamy sometimes.
You stick out your hand. “Come on. Up.”
He stares at your glove like it personally wronged him. “I’ve fallen eight times.”
“And I’ve helped you up eight times.”
“And I don’t feel like getting up a ninth.”
“Bellamy.” You lean in, eyes narrowing. “Get your ass off the snow.”
He sighs, the kind of sigh that comes from deep in the soul. Finally, finally, he grabs your hand. You brace, pulling him upright, and immediately he clings to your jacket like you’re a lifeline.
His board wobbles dangerously. His knees wobble even harder.
“Okay. Good,” you say soothingly, like he’s a skittish deer. “We’re standing. Standing is progress.”
“This mountain is bigger in person,” he whispers urgently.
“It’s a beginner slope.”
“It’s a death trap.”
You smile sweetly, gently adjusting his stance. “I told you skiing would’ve been easier, but noooo, you wanted to snowboard.”
He glares at you but it’s the soft kind of glare—the one he gets when he’s embarrassed and trying not to smile. “You said you’d support me.”
“I am supporting you,” you say, steadying his elbows. “You’re using me as a human crutch right now. Literally.”
He glances down the slope and instantly panics again. “If I let go, I’ll die.”
“You will not die.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Bellamy.” You squeeze his hands. “We’re on the easiest path on the whole mountain. Look—there’s a ten-year-old doing jumps over there.”
He looks over, sees the kid, groans louder, and hides his face in your shoulder. “I hate children.”
You knew it was a lie, you suspect it’s just this one. This talented, taunting snowboard-elf child.
“Okay,” you say, rubbing his back. “You ready to try again?”
“No.”
“You ready anyway?”
“…Fine,” he mutters.
You help guide his board into position. He takes a deep breath. You see him mentally preparing, mentally pep-talking, mentally bargaining with whichever snow gods might be listening.
“I can do this,” he says.
“I know you can.”
Another breath.
“I’m gonna try.”
“I’m proud of you.”
He lifts his chin, finally brave.
Finally ready.
Finally—
Pushes off.
Moves…
Two feet.
And immediately eats absolute shit.
Face-first this time.
You slap a hand over your mouth, trying not to burst out laughing too loudly. Bellamy groans into the snow.
“Don’t,” he warns, voice muffled. “Say it.”
You kneel next to him, rubbing small circles on his back. “I would never.”
He turns his head just enough to glare at you.
You grin, wicked.
“I told you so.”
Bellamy lets out a noise so dramatic it echoes off the mountain.
Bellamy stays facedown in the snow for a good ten seconds, like he’s contemplating just freezing there and becoming a cautionary tale for future snowboarders.
You tap his helmet lightly with one finger. “Hey. Tragic Hero. Time to get up.”
“No,” he mutters into the snow. “Leave me. Tell everyone I died doing what I hated.”
You snort. “Come on. You’ve fallen enough to unlock some kind of achievement by now.”
He cracks one eye open, squinting up at you. “Did you come on this trip to mock me?”
“No,” you reply, straight-faced. “But the opportunity presented itself.”
He groans in defeat and finally rolls onto his back. You offer your hand again. He grabs it, but this time he pulls too hard, and you stumble forward, landing half on top of him.
He blinks up at you, breath visible in soft white puffs.
“…Hi,” you say, trying not to smile.
His voice is low and dramatic. “I’m dying. Hold me.”
You shove him lightly in the chest. “Get up.”
He laughs—finally—and you help haul him to his feet (again). He wobbles immediately, clutching your arms.
“Okay,” you say patiently. “Let’s take it slow. Bend your knees. Center your weight. Don’t think too hard.”
“I’m literally only thinking about not dying.”
“That’s your problem.”
“You say that like it’s not a reasonable concern!”
“Bellamy,” you sigh, “I promise you, you’re not dying today.”
He looks at you, and for a moment, all the panic in his eyes fades into something warmer. Something soft. Something trusting.
“…Okay,” he murmurs. “What do I do next?”
You step closer, steadying his hips, guiding him gently. “Lean forward just a little. Good. Keep your shoulders pointed down the slope. And relax.”
“Relax?” he scoffs. “I’m strapped to a plank.”
You slide your hand to his forearm, squeezing gently. “You can do this. I’m right here.”
He breathes out, shaky but real. Then, very carefully, he pushes off again.
And this time—
He actually stays up.
You watch him glide, wobbly but determined. He makes it fifteen feet before losing balance, but instead of crashing, he drops to one knee and skids out safely.
He whips his head toward you, eyes huge. “DID YOU SEE THAT?!”
You cup your hands around your mouth. “YES, BELL. YOU DIDN’T DIE!”
He raises both arms in victory like he just won the Olympics. “I AM A GOD.”
“You went fifteen feet.”
“I AM A SMALLER GOD!”
You laugh, shaking your head as you snowboard down to meet him. He’s sitting upright this time, cheeks flushed from the cold and pure, ridiculous pride.
“Okay,” you say, stopping beside him. “Not bad. Want to go again?”
He looks up at you with a crooked smile, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Only if you stay right next to me.”
Your heart flips, stupid and soft. “Always.”
And it’s different this time. He’s not panicking. Not freezing up. Because he keeps glancing at you like you’re the only thing keeping him steady.
And maybe… you kind of are.
After a few more (less dramatic) falls and a couple genuinely decent rides, Bellamy calls for a break. You sit together halfway down the slope, boards kicked off, legs stretched out in the snow.
He nudges your shoulder with his. “Thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For not laughing when I ate it the first seven times.”
“You mean eight.”
“Please don’t remind me.”
You grin, leaning back on your hands. “I’m proud of you.”
He turns his head toward you, eyes warm and impossibly soft in the fading afternoon light. “You’re the only reason I didn’t quit.”
Your breath catches a little.
Then—
He reaches out, knocks the tip of your hat down over your eyes, and says with the smuggest voice imaginable:
“But you’re still annoying.”
You shove him so hard he slides a foot across the snow.
He laughs— full, loud, unrestrained—and you laugh too, because honestly?
𝖘𝖚𝖒 the reader is a hobby baker with big plans for the holidays, and extra set of hands in fiance!bucky; a little gentle love reminds him that cookie decorating is not a precise art...
𝖈𝖜 fluff. so. much. fluff.
𝖆𝖓 - Day 2 of 12 DAYS OF BUCKMAS!!! This series is a collaboration with my best friend @murdocksbitchh!! You MUST go check out her version of today, that is my condition for posting this. :)
Sugary scents floated through the kitchen as you hummed along to the familiar Christmas music blaring. Outside, a gentle snowstorm drifted down, and the fireplace was lit accordingly. You were busy fretting over the current batch in the oven— the timer was almost up, meaning you’d have to brave the oven’s scolding heat.
But a grunt drew your attention away from the oven. You peeled your eyes towards your very broody fiance, his hands moving slowly as he tried to add frosting details to the cookies. Bucky seemed to be laser focused— you doubted he even registered that he made the noise. Still, you floated over to him; two minutes left on the timer. You could ignore the cookies for a second.
“Hey, Buck.” Your voice was soft as you approached him, leaning over his broad shoulder to see what he was doing. He cast you a forlorn side glance.
“It’s harder than it looks.” He mumbled. His line work was a little sloppy, some of the detailing messy, but nothing bad enough to warrant the frustrated scowl on his face.
You leaned over his shoulders, draping your weight on top of him, cheek pressed into his soft brown hair. He grunted again, more out of surprise than anything else— he’s fully capable of holding you upright several times over. “They look great, baby.”
Bucky scoffs, something torn between a laugh and a groan. “Yeah, right.”
“They are!” You’re quick to defend your stance. You point to a messy Santa cookie. “Look at him! He’s perfect!”
“His eyes are on two different levels.” Bucky sets down his frosting tube, and wraps an arm around your waist. “You make ‘em much better than I do. Should’ve done it all yourself.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” You scoot closer to him. “They’re our neighbors. Working on them together is ideal. Besides,”
You kiss his cheek, “You look cute when you pout.”
His cheeks flush all the way to his ears; though his grumpy demeanor would never give it away, Bucky was quite touch starved, after seventy-odd years of lacking any sort of affection. It didn’t matter how many years he had you by his side— overly affectionate, clingy— he still savored each and every touch like it might be the last. It’s just the way he was conditioned to think.
“Whatever you say, doll.” His arms tightens around your waist, like you might melt away if he dared let go.
Your eyes settle on him, something soft on his face. Despite all the cookies, all the mishaps, and all the uneven eyes— he really was content here; at home with you, in your arms, basking in whatever chaos you brought with you. It was comfortable, a kind of domestic bliss he’d given up on until you stumbled into his life.
You rock him best you can, muscles weighing him down, to the beat of the song playing— loudly belting out the lyrics. He shakes his head, chuckling softly. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re—” The timer suddenly goes off, drawing your attention away from Bucky. You quickly peel yourself from his arms, and he very nearly groans at the loss of contact. You’re across the kitchen in the blink of an eye, still singing out Christmas music without a care in the world.
Bucky wonders if this is really his life, watching you pull a tray of delicious cookies from the oven. You smile widely when you catch him staring, setting the tray on the stovetop. You lean against the counter, grab two piping hot cookies, and then drag yourself over to Bucky’s side. You set one cookie in front of him, and then take a big bite of the other.
“I thought these were for the neighbors.” Bucky raises an eyebrow.
“They won’t miss these two.” You shrug, nudging his cookie closer to his hand. “Just try it.” He makes a big show of grabbing the cookie— the drama queen that he is— and takes a slow bite. He can’t maintain the disgruntled look on his face for long, as the warm sugar cookie melts on his tongue.
“Alright, you got me.” Bucky says after he swallows, “These are good. Think the neighbors can spare a few more?”
“Well,” You draw out the word, “I think they can spare some. What they don’t know won’t kill ‘em, right?”
Bucky nodded in agreement. You continue, “I guess I can put a couple more away for you, Sarge.” The playful wink at the end sends Bucky into an eye roll— but he can’t ignore the warmth spreading all over him. He feels safe with you. Content. A whole person, instead of a fractured ghost. For that, he’ll always be grateful. He hopes for many more Christmas times spent making uneven Santa Claus cookies for neighbors who won’t appreciate them just right.
Synopsis: You and Bellamy are feeling festive and are decorating cookies for Christmas.
Warnings: none, fluff
Notes: It’s Day 2 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
Word Count: 613
Dividers: @chrisssiren
You spent the whole afternoon in the kitchen with a Christmas playlist blasting from your speaker, the kind that had sleigh bells in every song and made the whole place feel warmer than the oven ever could. Flour dusted your shirt, icing bowls surrounded you, and the smells of gingerbread and sugar cookies were already slipping into every corner of the house.
Bellamy had wandered in earlier, leaning shoulder-first against the doorway, watching you move around like you were the one powering the holiday spirit. He never said it outright, but you knew— he didn’t really get the chance to do cute Christmas things growing up. Taking care of Octavia took priority, and “normal kid traditions” weren’t exactly part of the Blake routine. Cookie decorating had never made the list.
But tonight… tonight you were giving him a do-over.
By the time the sun dipped down, the two of you were sitting at the table with glasses of spiked hot cocoa, marshmallows half-melted on top. Plates of gingerbread men, trees, and little present-shaped cookies sat between you both. You were in your zone— tongue poking out slightly in concentration, piping little scarves onto gingerbread people while chatting about everything and nothing at all. Bellamy had taken only a few cookies for himself, insisting he didn’t need a whole batch to decorate.
He was quiet and focused at first, brow furrowed the way it always was when he took something seriously. You kept going, icing stars and bows and ornaments, lining up your cookies so you could give them out to friends later. It took time— way more time than you expected— but somehow, by the time you finished your entire set, Bellamy sat back with a satisfied sigh as if he’d been waiting for you.
“Alright,” he announced, sounding way too proud, “I’m done. You ready?”
You look up, and he was already sliding his plate toward you. He cleared his throat, trying and failing to hide the little smile tugging at his lips.
On his plate were… four cookies.
A gingerbread man with messy dark curls and a flannel shirt— it had to be him. Another gingerbread person with your hair and one of your sweaters that you loved— you. A little gingerbread dog with floppy ears— the dog you’d been begging him to get with you for months. And a Christmas tree with two presents underneath.
They were imperfect. A little lopsided, icing smudged in places, but he looked so proud you felt something warm burst in your chest.
“Bell…” you whisper, an immediate smile breaking across your face. “They’re so cute.”
He blinked at you, suddenly shy. “Yours are— look at yours.” He gestured to your perfectly piped set of cookies, each one immaculate. “…Mine look ridiculous next to that.”
“They look perfect,” you insist, sliding closer so your knees brushed. “I love them. I love yours more.”
His cheeks warmed at that, the blush creeping up in that way he always tried to hide. You lean in and kiss him— soft, warm, and sweet like the cookies you made.
When you pull back, Bellamy grinned, grabbing one of your perfectly decorated cookies, taking a giant bite straight out of the middle.
Your jaw dropped. “Hey!”
He chewed— slowly, dramatically—never breaking eye contact. “What?” he said around a mouthful of gingerbread. “You said you love mine more.”
You stared, scandalized, before smacking his arm, both of you laughing as he reached for another cookie like a man who suddenly feared nothing, not even your wrath.
It was stupid, and sweet, and small— but for Bellamy, he could tell this was going to be the sweetest Christmas he’d ever had.
Synopsis: Thanksgiving has finally passed and you get straight to decoration without waiting for Bellamy to get home. When he comes home he finds the house a mess and you extremely frustrated over some uncooperative decorations. He helps you in more ways than one.
Warnings: Smut, food play, piv, nsfw, MDNI 18+
Notes: Welcome to the first of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! Im doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
Word Count: 2.2k
Dividers: @issysh3ll , @iloveartfilm
Thanksgiving had barely ended. Your fridge was still packed to the brim with leftovers and the sink was littered with various glasses you swore that you would clean yesterday. You knew all of this, yet the cold morning air felt like permission to shift gears.
Christmas gears.
The kind of urge that made your fingers itch for garland and warm string lights was nagging at your mind. So, while the trash from yesterday’s chaos still waited to be taken out, you were already knee-deep in storage bins, pulling your room apart like a woman possessed.
The living room was overtaken within minutes, plastic tubs stacked like a miniature skyline, lids flipped open and half-emptied, wreaths and ornaments spilling out across the couch. The entry hallway wasn’t much better—boxes piled against the wall in a way that absolutely blocked the front door. You told yourself you’d move them before Bellamy got home.
That thought alone reminded you of the way you’d practically shoved him out of the house an hour ago with a grocery list and a kiss to the cheek, sending him to the store to grab the “few things” you absolutely needed before decorating could officially begin. He’d raised an eyebrow, muttering something about you being impossible, but he’d gone anyway, bundled in his jacket against the crisp post-Thanksgiving cold.
And in the time he’d been gone, you’d somehow managed to create a bigger mess than the one you started with.
But it didn’t matter. Because the bins were open, the music was playing, and you were on a mission.
Christmas was happening today.
You were balancing on the second rung of the step ladder, arms stretched as far as they could go, a stubborn strand of silver tinsel refusing to catch on the tiny hook you’d hammered into the kitchen wall. The tinsel slipped for the fourth time—curling, taunting—and you let out a sharp curse that echoed off the cabinets.
Of course, that was the exact moment you heard the front door open.
“I’m home—” Bellamy’s voice cut off abruptly, and you didn’t need to see him to picture the expression on his face. Something between awe, confusion, and the deep, suffering patience of a man who knew exactly who he was dating.
You cursed again, this time with a pathetic little whine as the string of lights in your other hand slid off the opposite wall. “Come on,” you hissed under your breath, reaching for it again.
Heavy footsteps crossed the living room, then paused in the kitchen doorway. “Alright,” Bellamy said slowly, “what’s going on in here?”
You didn’t even look down. “I had to decorate,” you said, as if it were obvious. “And I thought the tinsel would go up easy but it keeps—ugh!”
Bellamy stepped up behind you, warm hands settling firmly on your waist. “I can see that,” he murmured, already guiding you back and off the ladder.
You let him, melting into the touch even though you were annoyed at everything else. As soon as your feet hit the ground, he dipped down and kissed you, soft and amused. Then, without a word, he turned, grabbed the tinsel from your hand, and hooked it into place with one effortless motion.
You glared at his back like he’d personally offended you.
Annoyed and defeated, you stomped over to the fridge, yanked it open, and pulled out the leftover pumpkin pie and a half-full can of whipped cream. You set the pie on the counter with a thud, stabbed a fork into it far more aggressively than necessary, and sprayed a mountain of whipped cream directly into your mouth on top of the bite.
Bellamy choked on a laugh. “Seriously?”
You shot him a look as you took the bite anyway.
A second later, he was behind you, arms sliding around your torso, chin dipping to your shoulder. His body was warm against your chilled skin. “You know,” he said gently, “you could’ve waited for me.”
You sighed, leaning back into him despite your annoyance. “I thought I could get a head start without you,” you grumbled. “But all I did was make a mess.”
His lips brushed your temple, smiling against your skin, “Well, I’m not disagreeing with that part…”
You groan, releasing yourself from his hold and turning around, your butt leaning against the counter.
He chuckles at your antics, a small adoring smirk on his face as me moves forward, his arms casing you in against the counter behind you. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
You let out a huff and reach for the whipped cream, dispensing a large mountain into your mouth, one that definitely didn’t make it all the way into your mouth. You swallow what you could of the huge portion of the sweet airy substance, the rest catching on the side of your mouth.
Bellamy smiles and leans impossibly close, swiping his tongue across the side of your mouth, cleaning up any of the excess cream. Warmth pooled in your lower stomach at the action, your annoyance quickly replaced with the feeling of warm desire.
He watched as your eyes darkened and you swung your arms to hang around his neck, bringing him in for a sweet kiss, your mouths slotting together like connecting puzzle pieces.
He puts his hands on your hips, forcing your body closer to him with a hum of approval. You deepen the kiss, dipping your tongue into his mouth only for it to quickly be overtaken by his as it explores the expanse of your mouth.
You break from his tongue for just a moment, sucking on his lip with bruising pressure and a bite. He grunts and swiftly picks you up by the tight grip he has on your hips, hoisting you up so that you’re sitting on top of the counter.
Pulling from his lips, you move to his neck, attacking it with a new sense of need to ravish him, the stress from the decorations quickly leaving your mind.
His breathing is loud and his grip moves to slide up and down your bare, short clad, thighs. “I thought you were mad, ” the statement came out airy, “about the decorations.”
“I am,” you mumble, taking a break from his neck. Pulling your head back, you look into his eyes, yours clouded with the sudden urge to have him— now. You yank your shirt off from the bottom and pull it over your head quickly, disposing it across the already messy room. “I don’t want to think about the decorations right now.”
Your messaging was clear enough for Bellamy. His eyes shot down to your bare chest, a new drunken expression taking over his features as his tongue darted out, wetting his already swollen lips.
Wasting no time, Bellamy grunts, his mouth connecting with yours for another bruising kiss, your tongues gliding together, exchanging spit and panting breaths. He breaks apart, only to yank off his own shirt, adding it to the spot where yours resided, moving back to your mouth like it was attracted with magnetic force.
Your hands roamed the new expanse of skin on his chest, running over his hard stomach, contracting biceps, and shoulders.
By now, the sweetness from the whipped cream had vanished from the kiss and you found yourself missing the intoxicatingly delicious flavour.
Blindly, your hand reaches for the whipped cream can, your fingers wrapping around the cold aluminum. You bring the bottle up, letting it rest against Bellamy's arm. The sudden chill draws a sharp gasp from his lips, his body tensing momentarily.
He pulls back, confusion flickering in his eyes as he glances at the can. But before he can speak, you squirt more cream directly into your mouth, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes.
Understanding dawns, and a new darkness sweeps across Bellamy's gaze. He takes the can from your hand, pulling you into another kiss. The cream still lingers on your tongue, mixing between your mouths in a sweet, heated exchange.
With deliberate slowness, he pours more cream into your mouth. But this time, he purposefully misses, letting the white foam spray down your chest, creating a messy trail between your breasts.
"What a mess," he murmurs, his voice low and thick with desire.
"You should probably clean it up," you challenge, your breath catching.
His eyes lock with yours as he begins to lick, his tongue tracing every droplet until you’re clean. He takes his time, paying exquisite attention to your nipples, leaving marks on your skin that bloom like dark promises. Each touch and suck sends electricity racing through your body.
Swiftly, he pulls off your shorts, dropping them to the floor in a careless heap. Your hands immediately fall to his pants, fingers fumbling with the drawstring before yanking them off with urgent, desperate movements.
Bellamy's hands slide down, freeing his hard erection from his boxers. He pushes the fabric down his thick thighs, stepping out of them with deliberate slowness. The sight makes you moan involuntarily, the sound escaping before you can catch it.
Your breath catches in your throat, a familiar yet always electrifying reaction. Despite the countless times you've seen him like this, your body still responds with an intense, visceral hunger. You gulp, your mouth suddenly dry.
He slots himself up with your entrance, swiping his tip through your wet folds, pulling a gasp from your mouth at the contact. You slide your fingers into his hair, but both of your eyes are watching the spot where your bodies connected.
Bellamy pushes forward, your wet warmth enveloping his erection and a chorus of moans and gasps fall from your mouths, the newfound pressure making it impossible to keep your voices down. He slid himself all the way in, his balls resting against the soft skin of your ass.
His head drops to rest on your shoulder, his mouth leaving a wet kiss in the crook of your neck.
“Fuck Bell,” the whine leaves your lips as you wait for him to continue the movement, you needed some friction.
Slowly, he pulls out, stopping right before completely unsheathing himself before he pushes all the way back in. Guttural moans leave the both of you, the sensation of being filled with him having you see stars as the head of his tip brushes the tissue of your uterus.
Quickly he starts a building rhythm, in and out, fast, but slow enough to have you gasping and pleading for more. He obliges, quickening his pace until the only sounds heard are that of your slapping skin and exclaimed curses.
The bruising pace has you both moaning uncontrollably, broken curses tumbling from your lips in breathless succession. "Fuck—Bell—oh god—" you gasp, while he groans against your skin, his own voice rough and strained. "So fucking tight," he curses, his words punctuated by the relentless snap of his hips.
Your back arches involuntarily, lifting off the counter as the new angle shifts everything. The change is dizzying—suddenly he's hitting deeper, stroking against that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your thighs tremble. A strangled cry tears from your throat, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
Bellamy's calloused thumb finds your clit with practiced precision, pressing down before working it in tight, deliberate circles. The added stimulation is overwhelming, pleasure crashing through you in waves so intense you can barely breathe. "Bellamy!" His name rips from your lungs in a scream, echoing off the kitchen walls, raw and desperate.
His thrusts shift from quick to fast to absolutely punishing, each one driving you higher. But then his rhythm begins to falter, becoming erratic and stuttering as he chases his release alongside yours. You can feel him throbbing inside you, his control slipping with every thrust. "I'm—fuck—I'm close," he groans, his voice breaking.
His teeth sink into your shoulder without warning, the sharp bite of pain mixing with the overwhelming pleasure until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. The sensation pushes you over the edge, your body seizing as your orgasm crashes through you.
You cum together, your walls clenching around him as he buries himself deep, milking himself as he releases inside you. His hips stutter and jerk with each pulse, filling you with warmth as broken moans spill from both your mouths. His thrusts gradually slow, becoming shallow and uncoordinated before finally stopping altogether, his body pressed flush against yours.
A collective sigh leaves you both, completely blissed out from your respective releases. Bellamy comes back to your face, bringing a sweet, lazy kiss to your lips that told you that he loved you, the words not needing to be said with how obvious they were.
“I love you,” the words came from you as the kiss slowed to a stop. He smiles with a warm and loving expression, pressing another quick peck to your lips.
“I love you more.”
The both of you sat there just admiring one another, the sound of the Christmas music becoming audible again in the background. Bellamy moved his eyes to scan around the surrounding room, a smirk sliding onto his face as he flicked his vision back to you and where your bodies were still connected. A chuckle leaves his mouth.
“I don’t know about you, but I think we might have made more of a mess for us to clean up.”
𝖘𝖚𝖒 you think you can decorate your new hour for christmas all by yourself--- but it's much harder than it seems. but thankfully, neighbor!bucky is willing to lend a helping hand; and you repay the favor in kind.
𝖈𝖜 mdni, 18+, smut, vaginal fingering, beefy bucky, p!inv!, intimate sex, mentions of family, (somewhat) comedic ending, bucky barnes is a gentleman (in some ways)
𝖆𝖓 - Day 1 of 12 DAYS OF BUCKMAS!!! This series is a collaboration with my best friend @murdocksbitchh!! She'll be writing Ring The Bell; a series of twelve fanfics following the same prompts as me; but about Bellamy Blake (The 100). Please go check out her works, and enjoy!
Christmas decorating had gone well up until this point; the strings of lights you kept trying to hook to your roof tumbling down time after time. You let out an exasperated growl, grab the light string tight enough to strangle it, and give a firm talking to. “Now listen here, I didn’t drop a bunch of money on you so you could fall— just go into place!”
The lights did not comply. And this time, they didn’t slip back into your hands as they had before. The string of lights plummeted down to the ground, meaning you had to climb off the ladder to pick them back up. It was almost embarrassing how frustrated you were, but anger clouded shame. You stepped off the ladder, and for good measure jammed your foot into the base. The ladder rattled, obscuring the handsome chuckle coming from your driveway until its owner was too close to ignore.
Standing a respectful distance away from you was a very attractive man who’d just seen you kick your ladder like a spoiled child. Your cheeks flushed, turning even your ears bright red. The stranger spoke up, “Need some help with those?”
“Oh, uhm,” you look at the string lights, still fallen on the ground, and sigh. “…If you don’t mind, that’d be great, actually.”
“Don’t mind a bit.” The stranger stepped closer, “Those things are tricky. My ma used to make me string up all the lights.”
“Thanks so much.” You relinquished control of the situation, solely because he was still being nice even though you’d just come off like a total brat. While he adjusted the ladder, you picked up the lights. “Do you need anything? I can uhm,” sheepishly you scratched the back of your neck. “Hold the ladder?”
He chuckled again, “No worries, I’m used to these things.” His large hand gestured to the ladder. “Occupational hazard.”
“Oh! What do you do for work?” As he situated himself on the ladder, you offered him the string as a peace offering. His brown hair was tucked behind his ears, long enough to graze his shoulders. The fabric of his flannel stressed against his broad muscles as he reached for the lights.
“Firefighter.” He explained as you stared at the way his arms stretched out his shirt. “I work at the station a few minutes from here. Ladders like these don’t bother me at all anymore.”
“Makes sense.” You chimed in, “Sounds like hard work. I admire that.”
“Yeah?” He smiled sheepishly, gorgeous dimples appearing in his stubbled cheeks.
You nodded, “Yeah. You put yourself in danger to save others— pretty heroic. Er,” you looked away, embarrassed. “I hope that’s not weird to say.”
“Not weird.” He shook his head, “Just,” he strung the lights and they stayed on the hook. “Embarassing, I guess.”
“Right.” You nodded as if you got it, but you didn’t. The stranger continued working until the rest section of the roof was fully strung up. He then dropped the excess rope to you with a gentle warning, giving you ample time to catch it as he climbed down the ladder.
“So what about you?” He said, voice strained as he lifted the ladder and moved it over to the next section.
“Hm?” You’d been staring again. It was hard not to. Not only was his flannel perfect on him, his damn jeans were in the same predicament against his generous thighs. And that face; beautiful lines, just a bit of weathering…
“Work.” He clarified, “What pays your bills?”
“Oh!” It seemed obvious now that he’d said it. “Right, I’m a teacher. I just got done with all the training stuff, and now I work at the high school.” You smiled fondly thinking about the classroom. Teaching really was what you were passionate about career wise.
“High school, huh?” He looked at you, “What grade do you teach?”
“Mix of ‘em.” You handed him the lights again as he outstretched his hand. “Mainly just juniors and seniors. I do after school tutoring for all grades, though.”
“You probably know my sister then.” The stranger smiled fondly. “Rebecca Barnes. She’s a senior.”
“Oh, Rebecca!” You gasped, “Yeah! She’s in my AP American Literature. Very nice girl, super smart too.”
“That’s Beck for ya.” The stranger’s smile grew, “She’s real stubborn, though. Barely lets me get away with anything, always worrying.”
“Well, don’t give any reason to worry then.” You joked.
He looked down at you, “Can’t help it, occupational hazard.”
“Right, right.” You watched him continue working, carefully analyzing his movements while you tried to recall his name— Rebecca had mentioned him once or twice before. “Your name’s Bucky, right?”
Bucky nodded, “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Good.” You sighed, relieved you’d managed to remember it. Bucky was still working, focused on his decorating job. He finished quickly, and then moved to the next bit of roof, working quicker and quicker with each new section. The conversation flowed easily between you two— he talked about his sister, his best friend, and sometimes work. You, being new to the area, didn’t have much social life to talk about. But he listened to you tell stories from the classroom earnestly.
Eventually, he finished. Bucky folded up the ladder without a second thought, setting it back in the garage where it belonged easily. It had taken you at least fifteen minutes to get the thing out in the beginning. At your front door, you smiled. “Thank you so much, Bucky.”
“No problem.” Bucky gestured to the plug lying by the front door. “Wanna do the honors?”
The sky was looking pretty gray, sunset on the horizon. The lights would show up just fine. You nodded eagerly, excited to see the house in all its holiday glory. With a certain pep to your step, you plugged in the lights— and the whole house began to glow!
Giddily, you clapped your hands and admired the dazzling spectacle. “WOW, this is perfect!”
“Looks great.” Bucky nodded. “Go us.”
You offered him a high five on pure instinct, “Yeah, go us!” He smacked his palm into yours; skin rough, but very warm. “Even if you did most of the work.”
Bucky shrugged, “You helped plenty.”
“Right…” you eyed him skeptically. “Wanna come inside and grab some hot cocoa? To repay you for the work, of course.”
He smiled again, making your heart hammer in your chest. “Sounds great, thanks.”
You lead Bucky into your house, and as you take off your shoes, he mirrors the action with the respect of a true gentleman. You gesture to the couch, and he sits while you head to the kitchen to get started on making the cocoa. It takes a few minutes, but Bucky keeps you entertained.
As you bring the two mugs over to the couch, he comments on your home. “Cute place. I like it.” His charming smile is back, with a hint of something more behind it. You flush proudly, having spent a lot of time meticulously arranging everything in here to look as best you possibly could.
Bucky takes his steaming mug from your hands as you sit beside him. “Thanks! It took me a while to nail where everything went but,” you look at the furniture arrangement. “I’m very pleased with it.”
“You did a good job with it.” Bucky seemed genuinely impressed. “I think Beck and I could use your expertise. Our house is kind of a mess.” He chuckled bashfully. “Neither of us are very good at the whole decorating thing.”
“I’d love to!” You smiled widely, “Interior design is kind of a hobby for me, I guess.”
“Well, you’re good at it.” Bucky takes a long sip of his cocoa. “Wow, this is great. Color me impressed.”
“It’s just the packaged stuff.” You laugh, “With extra marshmallows and whipped cream.”
“I think that’s what sells it.” Bucky admits. You watch him take another sip, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he takes a large swig. You gulp down a lump in your throat— feeling like an absolute pervert for eyeing up your helpful neighbor who’d just strung your Christmas lights off pure kindness.
He catches you watching, which makes it so much worse. But he doesn’t excuse himself, or look disgusted. Instead, he smirks. His muscles twitch under his flannel, and you stare a little longer. Something unspoken passes between you two. Your throat bobs again as you set down your drink.
“Like what you see?” Bucky asks as you scoot closer, ever so slightly, until your knee knocks into his. You stare at where your leg meets his, heart in your ears. One of his hands comes to rest on your thigh— warm, strong, and heavy.
“Yeah,” you admit, daring to look into his darkened eyes, “A lot, actually.”
He chuckles, the sound more rumbly than before. He squeezes your thigh, before withdrawing his hand and taking a last sip of cocoa before he sets his mug down too. You take this chance to scoot closer, thigh lining his much stronger one.
Bucky leans into it, staring right into your eyes. His face comes closer and closer, until his breath ghosts along your lips. Your breathing stutters before you seal the distance between you two, accepting his silent invitation gladly. His lips are warm, and surprisingly soft. You sigh into his mouth, satisfied with the warmth.
Bucky is solid, strong against your hands as they curl around his neck, drawing him closer. His hair tickles your knuckles— soft, well cared for. He presses his lips against yours firmly, with a certain fervor. His hands, much larger than yours, come to your hips; dragging you into his lap.
Your thighs bracket his hips now as you part to breathe for just a moment. Your gut aches with a want so strong it might burn you alive. Bucky smirks, and you quickly move back to kissing him— this time more messy, as his tongue nudges into your mouth. His hands hold tighter to you, like you might slip away. Like he’d rather die than have that happened. You wonder just how touch starved he is, as his eagerness spills over into you— drawing your fingers to curl into his hair. He groans when you tug on the brunette locks.
His tongue explores yours, and you can taste the sugary cocoa on him. Delicious, you think. Your hips roll down onto his pelvis, drawing another groan from the man. Something pokes at your thigh— you giggle against his lips, and roll down again. God, he’s huge.
Bucky pulls away, “You’re a tease.”
“Do you not like it?” You fake a pout. He holds your hips, and grinds them down into his clothed length himself. The friction makes you keen, at the same time he lets out a stuttered noise.
“Is that a good enough answer?" Bucky asks. You cling to his shoulders, and nod.
“Pretty descriptive.” You reply, breathing unevenly. “Fuck me? Please?”
“Gotta prepare you first.” He laughs, shifting you so that your back is pressed against his chest. His hands come under your shirt, splayed across your belly. You shiver. “This okay, doll?”
“Yeah,” you breathe slowly, “Go ahead.” His fingers shift lower, towards the waistband of your pants— slipping under it carefully, inching closer to your core. You whine when his fingertips brush your clit, feather soft. Bucky drinks the noise up, and then presses them more firmly into the bundle of nerves. Satisfied for the moment, he shifts you around a bit to drag your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before his hand returns to wear it was over your now exposed cunt. You’ve barely known this man for a day, and here you are— fully naked on his lap. If you could still think all that coherently, you might be embarrassed. Bucky doesn’t give you anytime to lament this, though as he thumbs your clit once more
“So beautiful.” He purrs, “You’re so beautiful.”
The praise leaves you gasping. You reach for his biceps, digging your nails into them as he rubs smooth, sure circles over your clit once, twice, and then dips a finger into your sopping hole. Just one finger is thicker than two of yours, and you wiggle your hips— making a desperate noise.
He thrusts the finger in, palm grinding down on your clit, before he decides you need another— sinking both knuckle deep inside your warmth, curling them in a way that has you moaning out. Bucky is good at this, you decide, as his unoccupied hand curls around your breast.
As he fingers work you towards the edge, your moans draw sharp breaths from his lips. He throbs against your back, warm and heavy, and you’re finally understanding that some people really do get off on making others cum.
“S’good,” your fingers dig into his bicep to draw his attention away from the mess he’s making between your legs; juices coating his fingers and dripping down onto his wrist. “You’re s’good, Buck.”
“Yeah?” He rasps, curling his fingers until they hit a spongy spot on the back of your walls. Your whole body shakes with the moan you let out. You cling harder, keen louder. Bucky can tell you’re close before you even say it; words blurring together into a muffled warning before the coil in your gut snaps hard.
Your orgasm washes over you, like a tidal wave, dragging you down further onto his fingers as they fuck you through the overwhelming pleasure radiating through your entire body. When it’s finally done shattering you, your breathing comes in sharp, ragged gasps.
Slowly, you let go of Bucky’s biceps— he withdraws his fingers from your heat with an embarrassing squelch before he draws them up to his lips, and sucks your cum off his damn fingers. You want to look away, feeling shameful, but the way his lips curl around his digits as he swallows your essence keeps you staring in pure awe.
He moans when he’s finished, before you realize just how hard he is behind you, heat pulsating from his erection. It can’t be comfortable, you think, as you reach behind you to feel his member; still confined to his jeans. The moment your hand grazes him, his breath hitches in his throat.
“This won’t do.” You murmur, turning around to face him— your thighs back against his hips. Slowly, through the after haze of your orgasm, you roll down on him again. Bucky moans, a fully involved affair that leaves his head tilting back. He recovers, and holds your hips.
“Are you sure?” He asks, “I know we’ve only just met, we don’t have to… well…”
To bring him out of his head, you kiss him— tasting yourself on his lips. You peel back, “You just made me cum harder than I ever have in my life. Just fuck me, Bucky. Please.”
Finally, finally you’ve flustered him. His cheeks tint a sinful shade of pink, but he’s quick to return the favor as he uses his obscenely erotic build to flip you over— caging you under his chiseled arms as he looks down at you. A few strands of his hair fall over his eyes, but his pupils have consumed nearly all the sultry blue of his irises.
“How can I deny such a lovely lady?” He smiles again, the same charming dimple taking a much different turn than they had before; now speaking of mischief. “But first…”
He reaches for the hem of your sweater, tugging it up. You allow him to undress you fully, and his gaze becomes even more greedy; eyeing at the peaks of your breasts, the swell of them, and the way your collarbone curves into your sternum. In return, you reach for the top button of his flannel— tugging at it with shaky fingers until the button gives way; but not correctly. It tears off in your uncoordinated hast. Bucky’s eyes are transfixed by your eagerness, and he licks his lips subconsciously.
You groan, “I’m so sorry, I’ll buy you a new one—“
“Don’t worry about it.” One of his hands engulf yours as he helps you carefully undo the rest of the buttons; not in a mocking way, but something more like reverence. Each button reveals more and more skin, before it gives way to the hard lines of undeniable muscle. You feel yourself ache harder as he reveals himself to you— you’re sure your pulse is saying his name in Morse code.
When the flannel is fully off, your fingers trace the hard lines of his abdomen with the same reverence he’d just showed you. God, he was beautiful. His muscles contracted under your touch, and when your hands grazed his hip bones, his whole body trembled. With more care this time, you focused on undoing the button of his jeans. It gave way properly this time, and you let out a small sigh of relief.
Bucky aids you in getting the jeans off with a bit too much eagerness. They hit the ground several feet away from the couch, and you giggle softly. He laughs too, just as sweetly, and presses a gentle kiss to your lips as he works to free his cock from the last remaining thing keeping him from you; a tight pair of boxers.
When he’s done kissing you, you open your eyes and stare at his member; hard, throbbing, and huge. The tip is flushed pink, leaking from the sheer want in his body. His want for you, who had just been a stranger hours before. You, who he hoped wouldn’t want this to be a one and done thing. You, who were effortlessly more beautiful than anyone he’d ever seen.
You watch him pump himself once, before moving to line the head of his cock up with your tight entrance. You take a deep breath, sure it will be the last you’re allowed for a moment given just how large Bucky is; deliciously long, beautifully wide. He looks at you, asking one more time, “Are you ready?”
You nod eagerly, and Bucky slowly begins to push himself past the tight ring of muscles between your thighs. One of his hands grips the couch to stabilize himself, the other coming up over you knee to draw your leg around his waist, ushering him deeper inside you and allowing him to properly fuck you. He pauses after his head slips in; letting a deep groan. You whimper from the stretch, both a stinging in your core and the most wonderful thing you’ve ever felt.
When the stinging fades, your other leg curls around Bucky, ankles locking behind his firm back. You pull yourself closer, and Bucky reads the sign loud and clear— sinking more of his length inside you. When he finally bottoms out, you can feel his pulse inside your bones. The loud moan he lets out reverberates in the living room. You can feel him prodding at your cervix, so deep, deeper than anything’s ever been inside you. You barely can register his shallow thrusts until he hits that spot and draws a ragged, pitchy cry from your lips. Your fingers curl into his shoulders, hard enough to break the skin there.
Bucky’s pace grows rapidly, and soon he has you seeing stars— hitting spots inside you that you didn’t even know you had. Your grip on him is tight, damn near sucking him in, as he groans into your neck, overcome with pleasure just as much as you are. Each sound you make, every mewl he draws from you, each time your walls flutter around his shaft; they all draw him closer and closer to the same edge as you.
When his rhythm becomes uneven, Bucky begins babbling praise. “So beautiful,” he kisses your neck, “So perfect. Damn near sucking me in— fuck— never felt a pussy so perfect in my life—“
Each word sends you further and further into madness. Soon the knot in your stomach tightens; you tighten around Bucky’s thick cock as it spears you open and at the same moment, his tip hits somewhere so deep you can see it in your stomach. The bulge of him as he pistons in and out. You cry out, loud, raw, desperate— as your orgasm bursts like fireworks behind your vision. Bucky follows shortly after, grunting before the flutter of your climax engulfs him and he too falls over the edge of pleasure. With a loud moan of your name, Bucky finishes. You fill his cum, hot and so much spurt into your cunt with each of his slow, faltering thrusts. When he’s finished, he presses an open-mouthed, sloppy series of kisses to your neck.
His body weight folds in on top of you, softening cock still nestled in the warmth of your walls. You squeak, he’s careful enough to not fully bear his weight on you, but it’s still so much and if he was warm before, he’s a full-on furnace now. Sweat sticks his skin to yours, sealing you beneath him as you melt into his embrace, his strength. He feels safe above all else, you don’t regret giving yourself to him in the slightest.
After a few moments, he pulls himself up, letting himself slip out of your inviting warmth. You whine at the emptiness, more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything. Bucky stares down at you, how beautiful you are, and strokes a few hairs stuck to your forehead to the side. “Thank you.” He sounds like he means it, from the bottom of his heart.
The moment is interrupted by the ringing of his phone, vibrating inside his jeans pocket against the floor. He groans, kisses your lips, and then goes to retrieve it alongside his boxers. A look of pure panic crosses his face when he sees the caller ID— you’re not sure you’ve seen anyone answer the phone quicker.
“Beck? Hey, what’s up?” Bucky is shuffling awkwardly into his jeans as his sister speaks to him over the phone. She says something, and he grimaces. “Right, sorry. I lost track of time,” he looks over at you as he reaches for his flannel. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Tell Amy’s parents I’m real sorry, would you?”
Rebecca continues on, but Bucky excuses himself, “Give me fifteen, I’ll be there. Love you Beck, bye.”
He hangs up the phone and breathes out, “I forgot Rebecca was at her friend’s.”
“Go on, then.” You giggle, shifting. Bucky shakes his head, and crosses over the kitchen
“Got any spare towels?” He asks, looking through drawers and cabinets alike. You give him directions, and he finds a spare, clean hand towel. You watch him gently wet it before he comes to your side, gently wiping you clean.
“Sorry our time got interrupted.” Bucky looks embarrassed. “Why don’t I give you my number, and we can have a do over? Start with some coffee, take it slow.”
“A date?” You ask as you reach for your pants.
Bucky nods, “Yeah, a date.”
“Sounds great.” You smile, “Now go get Rebecca, okay? Don’t keep her waiting too long.”
He tosses the dirty rag in the sink, and then circles back to kiss you softly on the lips. “I won’t hear the end of this, she’s not gonna let it go for weeks.”
You gently run a hand through his hair. He leans into it, parting with another kiss. “Okay, I really have to go. Text me. Seriously. Or just come over— if there’s a car in the driveway, I’m home.”
“I will, I will.” You promise, “I’ll be getting my coffee, Bucky.”
“Yeah,” he smiles, “Yeah, you will.” And then he stands, and crosses over to the door; top button of his flannel noticeably missing. You giggle as he retreats, the door opening and then closing behind him. You reach for your phone; there’s a little note left on the top with a simple phone number.
