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Part 2 of Sun-kissed Constellations

A few of you asked me to continue this story, so here is part two! Semi-canon compliant Bellarke fic taking place post 5x05. Feedback is, of course, welcome <3

prompt: After having told Bellamy about radioing him for six years, Clarke makes the irrational decision to break away from camp as a sandstorm was coming near. AKA, the one where Clarke gets injured while thinking too much and now it is Bellamy’s turn to repair her wounds.

word count: 1,766

Part I

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Clarke paused after having left the tent, finally able to release the breath she had been holding in since Bellamy had stepped so close in proximity to her; A closeness she used to find comfort in, but now felt forbidden, dirty. She could still feel his breath on her lips, a ghost of the memory of who, and what they used to be to one another. For six years she had dreamt of having Bellamy this nearby to her again, only a kisses length away from being hers. But now it all felt so wrong. It was all too much. Clarke willed herself a glance back, desperate to see those dark curls she thought she knew so well chasing after her, but she knew he wouldn’t, and she tried to suppress her blaring disappointment when he didn’t. Clarke scanned her surroundings, finding Madi sitting beside Harper, sharing hushed giggles over a dimming fire, slightly leaning into one another’s warmth. She sent Harper a grateful smile as they locked eyes, having previously asked her to watch over Madi for the night so she could have time to herself. Quite the success she was having so far, she thought to herself. Clarke hurriedly eased her way out of the camp, going unnoticed, until she was finally free of any disturbances. She found herself accompanied by the vast plains of the desert and the heavy thrum of the atmosphere, buzzing to the beat of her very presence. Without warrant, her tears sprung into action, this time unable to be held back at shoulders length. She embraced the heated sting, allowing it to blur her vision until she was no longer walking through a sand filled wasteland, but rather, a dark, endless pit of turmoil and hunger. A hunger so deeply rooted right down to her very core that no matter how often she tried to tame the beast within, or feed it with distractions, she was still left completely and undeniably unsatisfied. The desire first crept up on Clarke in her dreams, a few months after Praimfaya, prior to finding Madi.

It came in flashes: a lingering touch, a bold hand, rough around the edges, yet soft in the center, right where it pressed into the small of her back. There was the pass of teeth against her tanned skin, even the exact dip in between his shoulder blades as she had imagined them to be for so long. She would wake up hot to the touch, immediately pushing the thoughts away with great effort, but no success. As the months went on, the lust turned into a full blown ache that traveled within her bones, through her veins, straight to her unyielding heart. Clarke began to know the suffering on a first name basis, as though they had been childhood friends since the very start, inseparable, and attached at the hip. Pain, this immortal being, was inexorable. He snuck up behind her when she was least expecting it, when she was driving the Rover through the burnt forests, or carefully sketching Bellamy’s delicate features. He would come out of no where, knocking her down, laughing in her face as she scuffed the pads of her palms, desperately trying to catch her fall. He was always there, taunting her, jabbing at her heart until it was sore, distorted, and raw. He faded from view at times when it seemed as though her luck was turning upwards, a rare storm passing through, finally wetting her lips after days of little to no water. Yet he embraced the curves of her shadow and trailed behind her every step. Some days he was duller than others, but also more defined than ever on those especially hard days when she cursed the world for having let her survive the radiation wave. Clarke learned to control Pain, shoving him deep within the closets of her own mind, the door locked until she would finally twist the knob, click! And there he was again, all powerful and consuming, taking over her every motion, until she on her knees begging whatever God there was for mercy. But now Bellamy was actually here, tangible, and within arm’s reach, but his heart belonged elsewhere. This was, beyond any doubt or reason, pure starvation.

Clarke left her rationality to the wind as she continued on through the sand, testing her own fate.

She survived a radiation soaked planet, being one of only two people to survive the tidal wave that wiped the board clean, destroying all but a single patch of valley that she knew as home. A little sand wasn't going to take her down.

She knew what was, and it was happening before her very eyes. The man she called to, put all of her love and hope into for over two thousands days, was not the man she once knew. She knew she couldn’t blame him for that, after all, six years is longer than she ever even knew Bellamy.

However, watching every wished upon star burn to the ground as though they had not promised each other eternity, that in itself was enough to kill her.

Clarke knew she shouldn’t be out in the sand, having a deep understanding for herself how quickly a stagnant night could alter into Zeus’s battle for world dominance.

Although, the truth of the matter did not stop her until her hair was a tangled mess behind her, whipping in every which way, the sand rising up around her as if she ruled the land.

Soon enough, sharp pricks dug into her sides, causing her to cry out into the night, her feet stumbling gracelessly back towards the direction of camp.

She could feel the shred of her exterior wear as glass tore right through to her skin, leaving gaping wounds across her fragile figure.

To her surprise, two unexpected arms folded around her torso, leading her away from the tormented land.

They did not let go until they were out of range of the ruthless winds.

“What were you thinking?” Bellamy yelled above the wind’s sharp battle cry. “You could have gotten yourself killed, are you crazy?” he stares at her incredulously.

“I’m fine, I knew what I was doing,” she can feel resentment build underneath her skin. “I got by for six years without help, I can handle a few sandstorms.” She knows she is being unfair, but can’t help the heated glare she sends his way.

She pretends not to notice the crease in between his brows as the blow strikes him, instead looking down at the wounds caused by the debris.

“Let me at least take a look at those.” he pleads, his tone softer this time.

He leads the way to his tent after having grabbed medical supplies from the medical station.

“I can just go to Jackson,” Clarke argues, only half meaning it.

Bellamy does not respond, motioning for her to sit down so he can patch her up.

“These are going to need stitches,” his voice trails, Clarke registering what that means.

Clarke thanks every God known to man for the dim lighting that obscures her deep blush spreading from the tips of her ears as she struggles to lift off her shirt without causing added damage.

Bellamy pulls at the sleeves when he sees her wince, discarding the garment, careful as to not look where he is not allowed.

When his hands meet her skin, bare and vulnerable underneath his touch, Clarke has to bite her lip to mute the gasp that nearly escapes.

She draws up a mental list of reasons as to why Bellamy swallows thickly before continuing that she would investigate further at another time.

They sit in silence as Bellamy cleans out her wounds, carefully using tweezers to pluck out the granules of sand and glass.

Clarke registers the feeling of his firm hands against her side, having never experienced this form of intimacy with him.

Her mind wanders to her lust-filled dreams she once had of his wandering stroke, the graze of their skin against one another, frantic, as if a break in contact would set their souls ablaze in anguish.

She all but jumps when he ghosts over her skin a little too softly, goosebumps rising to the surface of her exposed flesh.

“Sorry, ticklish.” she lies, unable to keep the waver out of her voice.

Bellamy pauses, scanning her eyes before asking,

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Clarke takes a minute to respond, Bellamy’s hand still resting against her side, his eyes searching her own.

“I was waiting for the right time,” she guesses, almost asking herself more so than answering him.

Bellamy just nods, before resuming his stitching, apologizing as Clarke grimaces.

The air is thick and Clarke almost feels sorry for putting him in this position before she rationalizes that he chose to do this.

“May I ask, what were you doing out in that storm?” she counters.

“Looking for you.” he states curtly.

Clarke’s skin is still searing under his relentless grip, one hand weaving the thread through her open gashes, the other lying flat against her stomach for support.

She can feel every etched line in his palm, each callus raised at the base of his fingers, and the soft impression of his touch against her naked form is enough to make her weep.

Clarke knows this is not her reality, not really. This is her version of the story she so desperately wants to tell, but cannot finish, for Bellamy is still writing his.

While she thought his return to Earth would result in the end of their chapter, in truth, Bellamy’s is only now beginning. She knows she cannot take that away from him.

“Clarke,” his voice hitches, the lump in his throat evident as he takes a shaky breath.

Clarke only shushes him, just barely overlapping his hand with her own, holding back a tortured cry as her hand molded around his own, as if they were carved for each other. She gave him a delicate squeeze, a silent reassurance that it was okay, she understood the timing was not right, it never was, afterall.

Bellamy bows his head as a tear cascades down his sunken cheek, to which she captures it, wishing on it as if it were a shooting star, an answer to her prayers.

For now, this is all she has, this one small moment, his hands pressed into her skin, leaving sun-kissed constellations in their wake, and the possibility that maybe one day, in another life, in another sequel, he can be hers.

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