I needed to write my own ending for Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin to censor out the horror that is passing for “canon”, so here’s about 2k of self indulgent angsty fluff. On brand I suppose.
Summary: Death comes for Bellamy Blake, like it has for so many of his friends before him. Even Clarke. It comes in what must be the most absurd way possible: when he’s asleep in his bed. Given how many things he’s lived through- falling to earth, wars, stable and unstable peace, to die from old age alone seems somewhat ridiculous. But that’s how it happens.
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Death comes for Bellamy Blake, like it has for so many of his friends before him. Even Clarke. It comes in what must be the most absurd way possible: when he’s asleep in his bed. Given how many things he’s lived through- falling to earth, wars, stable and unstable peace, to die from old age alone seems somewhat ridiculous. But that’s how it happens.
He’s eighty-nine, and it’s been three years since Clarke passed, here in this same bed. They weren’t sure what took her, only that she grew more tired, and sometimes her memory seemed to waver a little, but she’d gone painlessly, still with her mind intact and her eyes bright. She’d died with a smile on her lips, curled into Bellamy as he held her in their bed, in their home that they’d built together from the ground up.
He misses her like a limb, like a lung, like a sixth sense that he never knew he had until it was gone. He misses her, but he’s not lonely. They did everything they ever hoped they could and more. Between the two of them and their friends, they kept their people alive along enough to end land disputes and tensions between the former Arkadia, Trikru and Azgeda, among others. They dug in and planned out the lay of the land, created space for homes, for agriculture, for wells, for communal spaces and everything else they needed to have in order to do more than simply survive. And then they made good on their promises, and lived with more in mind than just making it to the next day.
Not that it was always easy. In the beginning, they were always busy and the only time they had for themselves was when they weren’t in meetings with other leaders of their village, or working with the others to till the fields and cure the meat and look after the growing number of kids among them. They spent their nights planning, at first, dreaming finally about a future they could see as a real, tangible thing for themselves, not just humanity. And then Bellamy and Clarke built their own home. They’d laid the corner stones together, raised the walls, hammered in the shingles and stone by stone, log by log, they shaped for themselves the life they wanted to share together.
At times they fought as bitterly as when they were younger, old hurts and betrayals still healing, but they loved hard too, harder than they fought and sweeter than they were ever cruel, and they always made it through. Like their home, they grew sturdier and more secure in each other with each passing year.
There was a lot of laughter in their lives, and joy. They shared meals and work with their friends, figured out how to whittle and weave and grow herbs in broken bottles they hung in their windows. They started a family, two kids that had Clarke’s blue eyes and Bellamy’s dark hair and freckles, and three more that they brought into their family who didn’t have anyone else to care for them. There was even more laughter then, and tenderness. They told stories and played games they had learned as kids on the Ark as well as inventing entirely new ones. They figured out how to love without fear, and how to discipline with infinite kindness.
Thanks for the prompt, @thelovelylights! She wanted Ambassador Katara, and who doesn’t love that? This one’s for you, sweet Queen.
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It was one thing to end the war, it was another to attempt to help heal the world and set it right.
The big, gilded doors to the former War Room- now Treaty Hall- are open like a mouth and she can hear the buzz of voices inside. Katara finds, much to her deep annoyance, that all of a sudden she has stage fright. She’s attended meetings here before of course, and has been a vital part of the early, post-war cease fire talks and the temporary treaties that were meant to hold until longer lasting, more thorough treaties and agreements could be negotiated and enacted.
In those meetings, though, she was only ever acting as herself. A girl who fought and laughed and flew her way across the world next to the Avatar, who had ties across all nations and kingdoms, but only ever spoke as herself. This time around, she’s dressed in the long, flowing robes of State: the deep blue of the silk emblazoned with the crest of the Southern Water Tribe, bracelets and armlets adorning her and marking her out as a dignitary. An Ambassador. One who speaks for her people, one trusted to act in their best interests and keep peace.
The honor is a high one, and she can feel the tug of gravity: the teetering point she’s balanced on as one voice to speak for so many. One lone voice to protect not only the future of a peaceful world, but the freedom and prosperity of a decimated tribe against the predatory interest of others.
In a room of life long politicians and dignitaries, she’s the newest face, and by far one of the youngest.
What if she can’t do it? What if she lets everyone down?
She wills herself to walk forward into the room and take her place at the round council table, but her feet seem rooted to the ground.
“Come on, Katara,” she scolds herself. “Don’t chicken-pig out of this now.”
“Nervous?” It startles a near yelp out of here and she hisses as she turns.
“Don’t do that, Zuko. You terrified me.”
He grins at her– that rare, real smile of his that lights up his face and makes his eyes dance like candles. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”
“A little,” she admits. “Ok, A lot,” she amends at his gentle elbow nudge.
“I know the feeling. I was too, before my first meeting in this room, and look how that turned out.” He gestures at his face and Katara’s jaw drops.
“Is that a threat or somehow supposed to make me feel better?”
“Better!” He has the grace to look chagrined. “Obviously better. No one is going to try to fight, scar and banish you based on anything you have to say. You can only really go up from where I was.”
“You are the worst at this. Bring back your Uncle from Ba Sing Sei, please, I want some real words of wisdom.”
“Yeah, me too,” Zuko chuckles. He leans back on the pillar that she’s been stalling– not hiding– behind for the last few minutes. She knows they’re both technically running late at this point but Zuko seems in no rush. He’s decked out in Fire Nation finest- gold tissue at his throat and fine over robes of red damask and silk. His hair has been swept up in a fine and elegant topknot on his head where the golden flame of royalty glints. He looks a long way away from the beleaguered, angry boy he used to be: comfortable in his power and secure in his position. She envies him that.
“What if no one listens to me?” Katara asks quietly, leaning back on the pillar next to her friend. “What if I let my people down, Zuko?”
He cocks her head at her. “Katara, if I’ve learned anything about you over the past five years, it’s that people will listen to you, whether or not they think they want to.”
“Yeah, because I was with Aang.”
“I mean, maybe partly,” Zuko considers with a frown. “But I don’t think so. You’re impossible to ignore, not only because you refuse to be ignored, but because you’re smart too. You see things others don’t. You’re compelling, and you don’t have patience for the bullshit. You have no idea how effective and persuasive that is.”
She feels her cheeks heat reflexively at the praise, but also a deep, surprising calm start to settle in her stomach. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, letting herself trust his words, trust her friend’s judgement of her.
“Besides,” Zukoe continues, voice softer now. “I need you in there. The majority of people in that room are dignitaries and politicians from a time of war, stuck on ideas that predated the war. They can’t see the future Aang is trying to build, one where people matter more than anything else. But you do. And you care. About people, not just about territories and money, but about the real things- how people think and act and feel. You shouldn’t discount how powerful that is.”
She looks at him. His eyes are warm and his smile– small and secretive– is one she’s always thought of as hers. It’s a little bashful, a little hopeful, and entirely trusting. She reaches out her fingers and catches them in his own, gives them a small squeeze.
“Ready?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Zuko.”
“Anytime.” He pushes away from the pillar and takes a deep breath, settling into his role. He gives her a little bow. “After you, Ambassador.”
Can’t believe what apparently happened in last night’s episode (well I can because fuck jroth the petty fuck) so here’s something that’s been sitting in my drafts since 2016 and hopefully helps ❤.
As most of my things are, it’s rated E.
Up in the Rafters
It’s late when Clarke finally gets home, the packed snow crunches brittle under her boots and she can feel the cold of the steel latch even through her rabbit skin gloves. It’s bitterly cold, too cold for fresh snow, too cold to really even be outside, and she wouldn’t have bothered to leave her home today if it wasn’t for visiting several patients in their homes.
Bellamy had come with her this morning, pulling his own fur cap down low over his ears and brow and then trying to stuff Clarke into another layer, only half in jest, Clarke thinks, despite his teasing. He’d gone to walk the periphery of their small but thriving community, worried about the well frozen over and the hush of the town. Despite having been raised on the morals of safety in silence, or maybe because of it, Bellamy gets uneasy when it’s quiet for too long, gets a restlessness that can only be soothed by contact and physical proof.
“Don’t get lost,” Clarke had teased him as they’d paused right before going their own ways for the day. Bellamy had pulled her close so he could stick his cold nose in her ear and make her squirm, giggling and trying to get away even as she curled her fingers into his jacket to keep him close.
“My tough guard dog,” he’d teased her. “Me? I couldn’t even hope to get lost, you’d track me down.”
“Probably, because you’re terrible at covering your tracks,” Clarke’d groused and turned her head up for a kiss, which Bellamy gave her, cupping her cheek in his hand and despite the layers between them, brushing his thumb along her jaw.
“Well, that’s the point. You’re a fucking joke of a tracker.”
Clarke had thumped his chest, lightly. “I got better,” she’d huffed.
“Sure, Clarke. Sure.” He left her with a kiss pressed to her forehead, and an affectionate tap on her hip.
WOW BIG SURPRISE I CAVED AND WATCHED THIS SEASON. You can in part blame @starboybellamy for her sneaky, slow process of drawing me back in. I would say “obviously they’ll give us Projection!Bellamy before it’s all over” but you never fucking know with jroth so ~~~
Old Eternity Blues
She knew he’d turn up, sooner or later. Thank god it isn’t with Josephine watching, that’s the only comfort. One moment she’s in her mind space, and the next there’s springy moss beneath her feet and the trill of bird call around her.
He steps out of the Dropship, and he is at once that boy with something to prove that she met so so long ago; her best friend who knew her better than anyone else, and the man she’s had to reckon her Bellamy with, older and more careful but still hers. He is all of those things at once, but he’s wearing that stupid Azgeda getup, the one he nearly got himself killed in while trying to save her from Roan.
She knew she’d call him- or this projection of him- eventually, but it still hurts.
Bellamy looks around at the Dropship Camp, empty except for them, silent except for the twittering woods, filled with birds and two headed deer and people trying to kill them.
“Man, we were just kids here,” he says.
“And how many lifetimes ago was that?” Clarke asks as cooly as she can, although her heart is beating in her throat.
“I’ve lost count,” he says, and gives her wry smile. “I still dream about this place sometimes.”
She winces and looks down at her hands. “I do. I don’t know if you do.”
“What, suddenly you can’t take me at my word?”
“Not when your word is just what I want you to say,” Clarke says carefully. There are so many things her mind could make Bellamy say: kind, cruel, neutral, and all of them would hurt because this isn’t actually him.
“Well, you and I, we usually end up being on the same page. Most of the time.”
“Most of the time,” Clarke agrees. “We always did make a good team.”
Bellamy chuckles, flashes her a wry smile, but he looks up at the canopy of trees and closes his eyes as a breeze whispers past them. Clarke’s chest aches with sight.
“You coming back to us?”
“I’m trying to. I sent you a signal, hope you got it. Not that you got any of my other messages.”
“Maybe I’ll pick up on this one.”
“I hope so.”
They’re quiet for a moment, and he drops down next to her on the log on which she’s sitting. She knows this spot- they used to sit here and share a cup of moonshine between them. Never enough to get buzzed and put the camp at risk, but enough to unwind, enough to work on trusting each other. She gets a distant note of how he used to smell: sweaty and unwashed like the rest of them, but his musk had a certain comfort to it. The ache in her chest grows and Bellamy glances at her. If he’s her, he must feel it too.
“Why don’t you just tell me?”
“Because… because you’re with Echo now. You’re happy. And even if you weren’t, you don’t trust me anymore. You don’t think you know me anymore. And you might say things like-”
“Funny way to show love,” Bellamy helpfully says. “Leaving me to die.”
“And-”
“Your love kills people. Why would I want you to love me?”
“Exactly,” Clarke manages, choking back how much it hurts to hear in Bellamy’s voice.
He’s quiet again next to her, fiddling with a stick between his fingers. His hands always had to be busy. He’s become so still now, this grown up Bellamy. She misses his frenetic energy- it always helped her know what he was thinking.
“I could say all that,” Bellamy agrees. “But it doesn’t sound much like me.”
“You’ve said worse.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he chuckles, and scrubs a hand through his hair like he’s embarrassed. “I did and said a lot of dumb shit. But I think I probably know better now.”
“You literally just made my daughter the Commander,” Clarke observes dryly.
He grimaces. “Bad move on my part. I mean, it saved our asses, but I know it came at a cost.” He glances side long at her. “You ever think that if you could forgive me for that, I could probably forgive you for leaving me in Polis?”
“I don’t know,” Clarke whispers, turning to look at him. “Bellamy, I don’t even know if I know you anymore.”
He nods, face twitching the way she remembers it did when he was feeling shitty or down on himself. The ache in her chest grows. “I miss you,” she chokes. “You came back and I still miss you so fucking much. And I’m terrified I’m going to make it through this, that I’m going to survive, and you’ll blame me for that too. Everyone seems to just want me dead.”
“No,” Bellamy says, reaching out to touch her knee. “Clarke, why am I here?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“You think maybe it’s because you need reminding that people can love you, not in spite of everything we’ve done, but maybe in part because of it?”
“You don’t love me,” she whispers.
“I know I loved you when we were here,” he says with a shrug looking around them. He knows because she knows, but it still makes her stomach flutter to hear him say it.
“I know. I did too, I just wasn’t ready-”
“Because you thought everyone you love dies, I know. But I made it. Madi’s made it. Your mom too. You gotta let that myth go, Clarke. Otherwise, why are you fighting so hard to come back? Is it just to survive?”
“Fuck,” she says, burying her face in her hands. “Don’t throw that at me now.”
Bellamy’s hand lands warm and large on her back and he rubs it gently up and down her spine. She can’t help but lean into the touch. He hasn’t touched her like this in so long, not really.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she finally asks. “I thought you of all my projections would be the worst.”
She looks up to find him watching her, his brows creased faintly. That old, concerned look used to make her feel… if not safe, then not alone. “Oh,” she says quietly. “That’s why.”
She leans into her side, lets herself because it’s not really him, and she can do this without guilt or fear that he’ll push her away. Bellamy wraps one arm around her back and holds on to her knee with his other hand.
“Will you stay? Until I either wake up or I’m… I’m gone?
“Yeah. ‘Course,” Bellamy says.
His is the last face she sees before her mind flickers to darkness.
When she opens her eyes, shivering at the assault of sensation of reinhabiting her body, the first face she sees is his.
A/N: It’s not spec fic when you know it’s not going to happen. But it’s assumed 609 concurrent.
Cat and Mouse
It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong.
Cl-Josephine slouches cross legged on one of the rocks. She’s twisting her finger through a section of her hair, over and over and fucking over again, pouting at him with Clarke’s lips. He can hardly look at her. It’s not Clarke.
The sudden onslaught of rain is still going strong, the downpour still audible as far back in the cave as their tucked. He didn’t realize how trapped he would end up feeling: Josephine watching him through Clarke’s eyes, space too small and confined to get any real distance from her.
“I meant what I said before, you know,” Josephine starts, in Clarke’s voice. Only it’s not Clarke’s voice. There’s no husk, no dry humor, no familiar cadence. Josephine lifts Clarke’s naturally low voice to a whine: childish and needy. “About taking some comfort in each other?”
He shifts on his own rock, turning away from her. If he doesn’t rise to the challenge she’ll lose interest, she’ll-
“Hey, Bellamy,” Josephine says, snapping her fingers at him. “Helloo, weirdo? Your hostage is trying to negotiate with you. This is like 101 of hostage situations.”
“I’m not interested in talking to you,” Bellamy gruffs, glancing back at her. “Be quiet.”
“Well, honestly that’s good because what I’m suggesting doesn’t involve much talking,” Josephine says and licks Clarke’s lips. His stomach rolls at how fucked up it is, to see Clarke smile, laugh, flirt, and know every micro movement is a violation.
“You know, I don’t really go for your type much. A little too beardy. A little too… what’s the word? ‘Morose,’ that’s it. But it seems like this brain is going to hemorrhage before I get to take this body for a spin with someone I actually like, so-”
“Shut up,” Bellamy snaps, on his feet before he can stop himself. A long distant echo rings in his memory, Clarke’s eyes flashing, chin lifted in a challenge. “Stop fucking talking.”
“Oooo,” Josephine giggles and Bellamy curses himself. He’s taking her bait. He’s letting her get to him. “Now there’s something to work with. Danger always did turn me on.”
She wrinkles her nose playfully at him and then sits back on her hands, one foot swinging. “I guess I can sort of see it,” she muses as she considers him. “Didn’t quite get it at first, but man, has Clarke got a thing for you.”
“Stop it,” Bellamy manages, throat closing in grief and horror at once. “Josephine, please don’t do this.” Whatever she’s picked up in Clarke’s mind, it’s not for her to share. It’s not for him to know without Clarke making that choice. She’s given up so much already, she deserves the privacy of her thoughts if nothing else.
“Mmm, heartfelt,” Josephine drawls. “But the offer still stands that we could find a much better way to pass the time than sitting quite so seriously in silence,” she says, putting an odd, overly dramatic accent on the end of her words.
“Listen, I can feel how good this body is. You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about all of this,” she says, gesturing to herself. “I promise you I can make it so good that Clarke’ll get a little echo of it up here.” She taps her head with a grin. “And wouldn’t that be a nice parting gift.”
“Enough,” Bellamy snarls before he can stop himself, revulsion coursing through him. He could withstand ALIE’s taunts launched from Raven all those years ago, but he can’t stand this. His friendship with Clarke, their almostmaybenever, the sacredness of what they share: this he won’t let Josephine defile.
“Come on, Bellamy, you’re so boring. Look at it this way: you’d be doing her a favor. You know that she’s been pining after you since she was what…. Eighteen? Look at you cradle robbing.” She winks at him. “Very naughty.”
He’s not sure why that shocks him to silence. He thinks part of him always knew but to hear it so callously from Josephine as she cocks Clarke’s head at him tears him apart. She was alone for so long. He left her alone for so goddamn long.
“Would it help if I acted more like her? I’m a great character actor, by the way. Not that you’ll ever get the chance, but you should see me onstage. I’m told it’s breathtaking. Anyway.”
She sits a little straighter and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, her whole face shifts. It goes a little more sincere, a little softer, a little sadder around the eyes. “Bellamy,” Josephine says, just a fraction of a decimal off from Clarke’s low voice. “Don’t you want to help me feel good? One last time?”
If it were anyone else, Bellamy would hit her, he’s at his limit. But she blinks up at him with Clarke’s eyes, face so close to Clarke’s expressions that he can’t. He can’t hurt her.
Josephine’s laughter follows him as he retreats from the cavern to the entrance of the cave. He needs fresh air, he needs to stop his head from spinning.
“I’ll just take care of myself then?” Josephine calls after him. He closes his eyes. He needs Clarke.
Vignette prompt: Bellarke. In Canon (but any season). Chair sex.
GUESS WHOS DONE WITH HER MASTERS. To celebrate, season 1 chair fucking.
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God knows why they choose the Ops Tent for this. Well, Bellamy has some idea, maybe. Clarke’s tent is small, and half the time she’s sharing with one of the younger kids. Bringing Clarke back to his feels wrong, like it’s making a bigger or lesser deal of what this is between them. Which he doesn’t know, doesn’t really want to know, because thinking right now would defeat the purpose.
All he needs to know is that Clarke is flushed, in part from moonshine, and in part because of him, he thinks, not without a jolt of pride. He wants to make her blush more, wants to find out if that little hum she made when he kissed her was a one off, or if he can get her to do that again. He suddenly wants to know a lot about Clarke Griffin.
The Ops tent is sparse on furniture. Best option would be the table, he thinks, but no fucking way either he or Clarke want to try to reset the map and their markers after whatever they’re doing wraps up. So chair it is.
He gives her a push into it, and she spraws back, legs falling open, face tilting up, a smirk playing on her lips like she thinks she’s got his number when he’s so clearly got hers.
Listen, he likes Clarke. Alright, likes is a strong word, but he respects her. And that itself is a strange feeling because he’s not respected a whole lot of people in his life other than his mom. And yeah, she’s smart, and tenacious and honestly the other half of the reason they’re all alive, but god-fucking-damnit can she be annoying. Especially now, when for once she’s not pissing him off but actually turning him on- it’s not supposed to work like this between them.
He grips the back of the chair and tips her back, the front legs coming off the floor so that he holds her precariously balanced. He’s tipped her far enough back that if he lets go, she’ll tip backwards, but Clarke just tips her head back to keep his gaze and smiles.
“Trust exercises?”
“Something like that.” He kisses her again and Clarke makes that same little humming sound, fingers lifting to grip is hair, hold him close. He bites her lip and she gives him a little gasp, but gets him back with a lash of her tongue across his. The way he groans makes her lips curve in a smile against his mouth.
He makes quick work of her shirt, just pulling down the cups of her bra to get at her tits. She’s got a pretty little whimper when he tugs at her pink tipped nipples, and a soft sigh when he sucks one into his mouth. He’s got only Roma and Bree to compare her to, but he likes the weight of her breasts in his hands, the tang of sweat that salts her skin.
“More,” Clarke gasps, patting impatiently at his shoulder, a request, a demand.
It’s easy to know what she wants. He watched Roma do this to Bree, he’s heard guards back on the Ark talk about it, but he’s never particularly wanted to try it himself before now.
Now, though. Now, he strips her pants off, wastes little time with her panites. Clarke’s cunt is soft with her wiry pubic hair that doesn’t quite hide the inner slicked pink of her labia. “Christ,” Bellamy breathes, and shoulders his way between her legs to get closer. She smells briny: salty and fresh and alive in a way that nothing came close to on the Ark, in a way that reminds him starkly of earth.
She tastes as good as she smells and he laps at her, eager, curious, nosing between her labia and mouthing curiously at her. Clarke gives him sweet little breathes, like nothing he’s ever heard out of her before, toes curling restlessly against her thighs before her hand lands in his hair and she urges him just a bit higher so that his tongue finds her clit.
“Just like that,” Clarke gasps, and god, he can feel her get wetter. “Oh, oh,” she murmurs, hips flexing a little and now he thinks he’s really got it. She’s so vocal, she’s easy to read. He lashes his tongue across her, tries tight circles, gives her the flat of it in a sloppy back and forth. Her nipples peak and tighten, and Clarke’s breath gets shallow.
“God you taste good,” Bellamy can’t help but tell her as his chin gets wetter, as her thighs get slick. “Fuck, Clarke.”
“Yeah?” She murmurs, head tipped back, throat exposed. She shouldn’t trust him this much– six weeks ago she shouldn’t have– but here she is: all her physical vulnerabilities open to him, and all he wants to do is make her feel good. “You can suck on me, if you want.”
He groans at that, and gets her clit between his lips. He likes that feeling- a mouthful of Clarke’s cunt and her fingers tight his hair, her gasps coming quick now, in time with his tongue.
“Fuck, you really like that, huh?” He manages before he redoubles his efforts and Clarke laughs shakily above him.
“No one’s… not in a while. Not since- since- ah.” Her whole body twitches with each lash of his tonuge and soon enough she nearly flails out of the chair itself, her cunt pulsing against his lips, his cock aching in his pants.
“Oh my god,” Clarke breathes. “Oh, wow.”
Bellamy runs his blunt nails down her thighs and admires his work. She’s so wet now, cunt swollen and flushed just from his mouth. From the slick on his cheeks and pleasant numbness of his lips, he thinks he’s probably a matching set. Clarke seems to think so as she looks down her body at him and her eyes glimmer.
“More?” A question this time.
Clarke makes quick work of their shirts as Bellamy gets his pants undone, and then it;s Bellamy’s turn to sprawl in the hard seat as Clarke settles over them. They don’t have the luxury of chair- arms or padding, so Clarke has to wedge her knees close to his hips to balance, and Bellamy grips her thighs to hold her in place.
“You gonna be able to take me?” he wonders, a breath puffed against his mouth. “I can give you a few fingers first, if you want.”
“Umm,” Clarke huffs, something that sounds like it’s caught between a laugh and a moan. “Let me try first.”
God, she’s so wet. The first brush of her cunt against him makes Bellamy’s hands spasm on her thighs and Clarke lets out something that’s definitely a breathless laugh at that. But then she’s gripping the base of his cock and sinking down on him, and holy shit that is a lot. Her slickness doesn’t hide how tight she is, the walls of her cunt fluttering around him as she works herself down on him and Bellamy has to bite at her collarbones because there’s an added layer of dirtyhot knowing that it’s Clarke he’s pushing into, Clarke shuddering out little breaths as she takes him deeper.
“Jesus that’s good,” he finds himself saying. “Jesus, you’re so good, Clarke. How’s that feel, huh? How’s taking me feel?”
“My god, you never shut up, do you?” Her gripe is less convincing when it comes out a whimper.
“Almost got it all,” Bellamy encourages her, brushing his fingers over her cunt. “So close- there.” She’s seated flush against his thighs, mouth open as she sucks in a breath and Bellamy lips at her mouth, half a kiss, half trying to suss what she needs. His thumb brushes her clit and Clarke whines high in the back of her throat.
“Yeah? More of that?”
“Mmmhmm.” And then she’s rolling her hips on him lazily, and Bellamy’s never felt anything better. He’s so deep in her, bumping something in her with each thrust of her hips that makes her pant hoarsely against his mouth. Their position doesn’t let him help her out much with the rhythm, but he keeps circling her clit with this thumb, and he hears a whole new range of Clarke’s soft, sweet sounds.
She gets tired of the slow pace, after how long he has no idea, and rides him hard, anchoring herself on shoulders and the back of the chair, trusting him to keep her knees from slipping off the chair. It’s rough and loud and not the most comfortable sex he’s had, but goddamn he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Clarke coming on his cock, burying a moan into his neck does something primal to Bellamy, and then he’s gripping her and fucking up into her hard, muttering something that might be so fucking wet. So fucking hot, Clarke.
She stays limp in his lap for a few minutes as their bodies cool and heart rates slowly return to normal. He wouldn’t call it cuddling, they’re not those kinds of people, not right now, but he wraps his arms loosely around her back to keep her secure, and she rests her head on his shoulder.
Eventually, they’ll make their excuses and shrug whatever this was off, and go back out to keep camp of 90 odd kids alive. But for the moment, this is a nice reprieve.
idk if you've heard of cockwarming (essentially just spooning with penetration) but i can TOTALLY seeing that being something bellarke does
I don’t know if you meant this to be a prompt, but I’m using it as such because this is ABSOLUTELY something bellarke does.
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Despite the rest of the house staying warm during the winter months, their bedroom is always cold. Clarke likes to keep a window cracked, preferring the fresh air to the stale air of the heat vents. She’s already tucked up in bed when Bellamy gets home, not much more than an inviting looking lump under the covers when he tiptoes into their room. He can hear the soft sound of the thick snow flakes outside, whispering and rasping across the already accumulated snow that crunched under his boots on his way home. He can all but see his breath in their room, but the promise of a sleepy, cuddly Clarke under their layers of quilts and feather blankets is enough to overcome his resistance of stripping down to sleep.
“You know,” he murmurs when Clarke grumbles at the gust of cold air that he lets in under the blankets as he crawls into bed with her. “If you kept the window closed, you wouldn’t get grumpy. Or have to wear three sweaters to bed.”
“It’s one sweater,” Clarke tells him, voice thick with sleep. She rolls over groggily so she can nuzzle into his chest.
“And how many shirts underneath?”
Her chuckle is a stuttered breath against his neck, her nose cold from the air even as the rest of her is so warm. “Just one.”
It’s two, when he sneaks his fingers underneath and has to navigate wool and cotton and terry cloth to find her warm skin. She hisses at his cold fingers, and he can’t help but be a bit of a dick and sneak them up her sides. “You’re going to overheat, babe.”
“No,” she protests, lifting her face for a kiss. “I just knew you’d be cold. Wanted to warm you up.”
She slides her arms around his shoulders and neck, creating a warm cocoon for them as Bellamy can’t resist kissing her, and kissing her again at the heady rush of her tongue against his lower lip. She hitches one of her knees around his thigh and Bellamy runs his slowly warming fingers down her spine, searching out the hem of her panties only to find-
“Nothing, babe?” He groan-laughs in delight as he palms the warm, bare expanse of her ass.
Clarke smiles against his mouth, nips at his lip. “Like I said, wanted to warm you up.”
When they first got together, he’d never been able to resist her simplest overture. But now, years strong and a certainty of all the time they have left, sex doesn’t need to be a priority, not when he’s gotten home later than expected and she has to be up for the sunrise shift. His girl needs sleep, as much as he does, but he’s not above a few more deep kisses, ones that make them both hum into each others mouths as he slips his fingers down and cups her cunt. She’s warm and wet here and sighs so prettily into his mouth, hips rocking inviting against his hand.
“I don’t want to get you all keyed up,” he tells her, slowly their kisses and brushing his free hand gently across her forehead, thumbing at her temple the way he knows helps her relax and settle when she’s restless.
“I know,” she murmurs. “I know. I just want you inside me.”
“To sleep?”
“Mhmm.”
“’Kay,”
Between the two of them, they get his boxers rucked down and it takes an enormous amount of self control to not let himself get carried away with the way Clarke pets his cock hello. He indulges them in one last, long kiss, and then nudges her back over onto her side, brushes her hair aside so he can kiss at the nap of her neck as she positions him to slide inside of her.
They both hum in contentment as he pushes into her, and Bellamy can’t resist a few, slow, shallow thrusts inside her, just because she feels so good. She flutters her cunt around him and then they settle, Bellamy’s hips snug against her ass. He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her back into his chest, nuzzling at her ear.
“Comfy?”
Clarke makes an emphatic, contented sound and laces her fingers through his own, lifting her head so that Bellamy and can slide his free arm under her pillow. Clarke is cozy in his arms, and hot and wet and wonderful around his cock, and nothing compares with falling asleep wrapped up in and around his girl.
