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She arches her neck, grinning as she feels him smile against her throat. Nipping at the skin over her pulse, Clarke wonders if he can feel how quickly her heart beats. She can hear it, loud in her ears, almost sending tremors through the earth like some Greek god.
She’s not that. Clarke knows the Greek gods like she understands the best way to cut someone open and save their life. It’s been kissed and smeared onto the back of her hands, the inside of her thighs, her collarbone and neck.
He’s telling her a story now, even though it’ll take a day and a purple bruise on her skin for her to be able to understand it.
“When you said you wanted to see me —” he breathes, pausing in between his words to trail up her neck and nip her ear. Sitting on the Council table, Clarke doesn’t swing her legs against it any longer. She can’t, not with him standing between her legs.
Pressing her into the edge of the table, her hands dig into his shoulders. His curve to her ass, as though he wants to lift her up, somehow carry her as Atlas does the world. “Didn’t think it was like this, Princess.”
Clarke opens her eyes and rolls them. Fingers digging purposefully hard into the fabric of his shirt, she hopes he feels her blunt nails try and cut into him. She’ll never be strong enough, refusing to be as sharp as she once was, but she always tries to leave a mark on him, one that’ll remind her the half-crescent moon in his shoulder is hers. So many people have tried to claim him, the gods in the skies, the Grounders, even himself, that she can’t bear to let the freckles of his shoulders be taken by someone else.
The room is dark, save for the light from the metal panels reflecting the candles and dull lights in the ceiling around them. It isn’t so dark she can’t see him; when she glances at him from the corner of her eye, she can see his mop of dark hair, each strand curling and standing up from her hands having carded and tugged at his hair. He bites at her ear before kissing her throat again, fingers digging into the curve of her ass despite how tough the fabric of her jeans are. Her legs wrap around the backs of his thighs, feet bare with her shoes discarded beneath the table.
The long table has a few discarded papers scattered on top of it, ones she’s written and doodled on. She’d thrown herself against him when he’d reached for one with a sketch of him shaded onto it, leading into her pressing herself into him and him leading her to the table where she now sits. Her chair remains pushed far back, having skidded along the floor when he’d approached her once the Council had cleared the room.
Turning her head, she lifts her hand to cup his cheek. Fingers beneath his chin, she tries to turn his head to face her. Shaking her head, she purses her lips when she says, “Still not how I want.”
Arching a brow, he grins. “No?”
Carding her fingers through his hair, she pulls at it. His head jerks, grin widening, and the arch of his brow never wavers. Her other hand glides up his neck, curving around it, before she lets her fingertips brush beneath his jaw. Thumb tracing his bottom lip, she lets her fingers fan across his cheek, brushing over the constellation of freckles she’s never been able to count.
She’s always liked looking up at the stars. And she suspects she’s looking at him as though he’s the night sky once more, eyes wide and expression captivated.
“Come on, Clarke,” he breathes. Standing slightly taller, he pulls away from her, and her legs wrap around the back of his to keep him close. His grin is small, knowing what she’s doing. Bellamy’s always been able to read her like one of his thick and old books.
Hands sliding away from him, she hooks them into the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head. Letting it drop on the table behind her, she looks at him with an arch to her brow. With a put upon sigh, he glances away, but with a tilt of his head, he looks at her again with amusement. His eyes never leave hers until her hands drift beneath the fabric of his shirt.
He seems to shiver, muscles tensing beneath her fingers. She glides them slower up his torso, tracing the lines of muscle and puckered skin.
“You’re distracting,” she murmurs, voice low. When she glances up, he’s looking down at her. She knows he’s looking at her chest, the scar over her collarbone and the fading bruise around her side. It wraps around her like a half-hearted hug. “Standing there, acting like you’re better than everyone in the room —”
His voice is low, a noncommittal deadpan, “I have better places to be than here.”
“— Reminding me why I love you.” She stares at his collarbone, lifting a hand from his chest to brush against the base of his neck. Fingers dipping to where the collar of his shirt rests, she drags it down, blunt nail leaving a white line against his skin.
Glancing up at him, Clarke’s heart beats rapidly in her chest. His hands remain where they are, almost cushioning her against the table. He looks down at her, expression slightly difficult to read. She gives him a moment, her hand brushing against his collarbone as she lets her fingers stroke against the freckles she can see. But it’s only a moment she gives him, always allowing him to take some time to process it, to grasp at the words and accept that they’re for him and him alone.
Connecting the freckles littering his skin there, she sees him step into her. Hands gripping her a little harder, he bows his head in an attempt to draw her gaze to him. Her face feels hot beneath his stare, and though she’s said it before, when he’s asleep, in the middle of him pressing himself into every crevice of her, she acts like it’s the first instance every single time.
Letting her hand drop, she curves her fingers around the edge of the table. Bellamy lifts his hand to brush the back of his fingers against her cheek. Closing her eyes, she feels her lips droop when his hand slips away.
When she opens them again, she sees him pulling his shirt over his head. Letting it drop to the ground, he steps into her again, lowering to slope his mouth firmly against hers. Fingers gripping at his back, she lets her legs relax against his, falling away as his hand glides up her back and nails dig into the flesh of her spine.
Unclasping her bra, his hand presses against the naked space of her back. She unwraps her arms from around him, pulling the straps down and tossing the garment to the side.
Pulling away from him, he descends to her neck, alternating between kissing and sucking. She sighs, breath hitching, hands gliding down his back with her nails trying to break his flesh apart. “Still think you’ve got better places to be?”
Lifting his head, he looks at her with a slight pull of his brows and a quirk to his lip. “Shut up, Clarke.”
She smiles as he steps away, toeing off his boots. Fingers moving to the button of his jeans, he sheds them quickly, standing in his underwear before her. Stepping back into her, his hands glide down her back, palms flat in their descent to the small of her back.
Sometimes she regards his hands like wings, warm and large and safe. She easily folds into him, lifting her hands to glide her fingers into his hair to pull him down toward her.
One of his hands moves away from her back, gripping her hair. Fingers falling into the strands, she moans at a hard tug. Pulling away from his mouth, she arches her neck as she feels him fall to it again, humming for a long moment before breaking into a groan as his teeth and lips drag and suck at her skin.
Hands in his hair, she pulls at him again, drawing him toward her mouth once more. Licking into his, she feels his teeth against her bottom lip, the firm press of his mouth against her own as hard as his hands moving along her back. One moves away from tracing the notches of her spine to glide up her torso. Palming her breast, she moans as he kneads it, arching into him as his hand on her back presses her into him.
“Move back,” she whispers against his mouth. Bellamy makes a noise in his throat, one she believes to be a protest. Shoving him at the shoulders, he takes a step back, grinning as he looks at her. Slipping off the table, she undoes her own jeans, shimmying out of them and letting them pool on the floor at her feet.
Looking down the length of his body, Clarke’s lips curve upward when she sees he’s hard. He stands before her like what she’d always imagined Adonis to look like in his stories, shoulders pulled back, arms by his sides, freckled and dark skinned with hair as black as night. His gaze is as dark as the charcoal that’s come to stain her hands, and she finds she wishes to smear it onto a canvas in her memory.
Turning around, she glances over her shoulder at him. Hooking her fingers into the waistband of her underwear, she looks away as her heart pounds in her chest. Feeling a flutter of nerves dance with the heat swelling inside of her ribcage, she pulls the fabric down her legs, stepping out of them.
Warmth presses into her back, and she knows he’s there. Toes brushing the heels of her feet, his hands are a light caress, much like the breeze, too shy to whip at the leaves of the trees but confident enough to brush against them gently. His hips are naked against hers, having shed his underwear within seconds of her turning her back to him.
She turns her head, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. His hand is light against the back of her shoulders. “I’ve always liked this beauty spot,” he murmurs, fingers brushing gently against her left shoulder blade.
“You’re the only one,” she says quietly, amused. And her breath hitches when she feels him press his mouth against her shoulder blade.
Pressing into her, Clarke slowly tilts forward. His hands move into her hips, chest almost following her movements as she feels the warm weight of him against her. Cock hard against the small of her back, she wraps her fingers beneath one of his hands, pulling it forward to brush against the inside of her thigh.
He doesn’t need her guidance to slip his finger inside of her. Inhaling sharply, she drops her hand to the table, fingers digging into the hard surface like it’s as soft as the earth. Kissing her neck, he bites at her shoulder, sliding his finger deeper inside of her. Despite how rough his hands are, she finds the flesh of his long fingers to be soft, like the callouses are the gentler parts of him. Once he begins to move his finger within her, she rocks against him, and his kisses along her back begin to lose their calculated movements.
Sliding another finger inside of her, she parts her legs, letting her head drop as her fingers try to find purchase in the surface of the table. But where she’s unable to dig into the earth of its surface as she often can with his skin, she feels his teeth do in the softness of her flesh.
His other hand glides up her torso, palming her breast to knead it. She arches into him, and hears and feels him groan into her back as she tries to rub against his cock. With him pressed against her, it’s hard for her to focus on anything but him, the warmth of his chest, the sounds he makes, the way he makes her feel less like a broken mirror and more of the reflection she had once been when she looked at him.
“Bellamy —”
Closing her eyes, she tilts her head back and feels him move to meet her neck with his mouth through her hair. Moving a hand from the table, she wraps her fingers tightly around his wrist, trying to keep his hand between her legs as she attempts to move his to slide his fingers deeper inside of her.
Pulling away from her shoulder, her back feels lighter without his chest protecting and warming her spine. Instead of sliding his fingers deeper within her, she feels him pulling them away, and despite her efforts to close her legs and trap his hand, her grip on his wrist tightening, she feels his other hand tap against her hipbone as she begins to lose him.
“Clarke —” His hand falls away from her hip. Glancing over her shoulder, she looks at him, and finds him staring at her. Fingers falling from his wrist, she presses her lips together when he removes his hand from between her legs.
His fingers trace down her spine, soft in their gentle brush. She shivers all the same, closing her eyes as she misses his fingers pressing against her skin when his hand falls away.
Quietly, he says, “It’s up to you, Clarke.”
And she swallows thickly, stepping closer to the table. “I want you,” she says, voice low. Feeling her thighs almost sear themselves against the hard and cold edge of it, she presses her hands against the surface of it.
Slipping her hand between her legs, she reaches for him, wrapping her fingers around his cock. Running her nail along the length of him, she smiles at his groan. His hands move to her hips, gripping her tight enough to leave a mark on her skin.
Lifting one of her legs, his hand wraps around her it near her knee, holding it as she bends it.
He gets it quickly. Bellamy moves with her as she opens herself up to take him.
She sheathes him slowly, groaning as she moves back onto him. Pulling herself along the table, she feels him push himself deep inside of her. Hips pressed against her ass, she parts her legs for him, standing on the tips of her toes as she feels him begin to rock into her.
His thrusts start slow, his groans low as his fingers dig into her hips. He doesn’t move his hands as she expects him to, moaning when he begins to move quicker. Fucking her on him, his fingers grip her instead of the table; one of her hands curls around the edge of it, fingers trying to dig into it to gain purchase.
“Fuck,” she groans, feeling his hand leave her leg for a moment to grip at her hair. Nails dragging down her back, she shivers, feeling her leg almost slip where she tentatively tries to balance it against the edge of the table without him to hold it up.
Vaguely, she remembers they hadn’t locked the door.
Curling his fingers into the skin beneath her knee, Bellamy’s thrusts are harder and quicker. His grip on her much tighter than before. Rocking back onto him, Clarke tries to meet each of his thrusts, feeling her entire body growing hotter. Slipping her hand between herself and the table, Clarke rubs her fingers against her clit.
Where she thought he couldn’t be any deeper, already buried to the hilt within her, she feels him pull back, withdrawing until the tip of his cock is inside of her, before he slides into her hard and fast.
Groaning loudly, her body trembles. She feels him do it again, slowly pulling himself from her to slide into her again. With her finger working at her clit, his warm hands hard on her hips, and him tightly wielded to her, Clarke comes, throat burning as she feels her own voice scorch her throat.
Shifting against the table, she tries to fuck herself on him, moving her hips against his. Hand still between her legs, she brushes her fingers against his hip, clenching around his cock. She feels him come, the jerk of his hips pressing her harder into the edge of the table. He doesn’t step away from her, instead curving himself to the back of her as he presses her into the table.
“Bellamy,” she breathes out, throat feeling raw. Lying on top of the table, Clarke doesn’t try to move. The weight of him is warm and solid, and though it steals her breath in a manner entirely different to being fucked, she likes it. It’s grounding, in its own way. It’s the way she likes to be, with the weight of him pressed against her to keep her from floating adrift.
Pressing her cheek to its cool surface, he kisses the back of her head, brushing his fingers against her hair sticking to her damp back. “Yeah?” She smiles at the sound of his own voice, low and ragged. She feels his chest against her back, can hear how he can’t quite catch his breath like her, and finds there’s a power to hold from that, warming her as she shifts against him and catches herself groaning at the sensitivity of her nerves.
Breathing hard, she swallows thickly. Mouth dry, she bites at her bottom lip, trying her best not to shift against him to hear him make a stupid quip. “Still like that beauty spot?” She lifts her head, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
“Yeah,” he breathes out. He smiles at her, curved upward into something shy. She likes how he ducks his head, pulling back from her slightly to look at the beauty spot on her shoulder blade. “I love it. I should look at it again sometime.”
“Don’t you have better places to be?” She tries to stretch, and groans, feeling spent and slightly sore. Laughing low in her throat at herself, she presses her cheek against the table and closes her eyes.
He’s quiet for a moment. Pressing his mouth against her back, she thinks he’s stalling, humming low in his throat for a moment as he becomes distracted. Against her skin, he says, loud enough to leave a bruise blossoming against her flesh, “Only place I can stand being is with you, Clarke.”