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He thinks she’s serious, the first time she says it.
Dating is a strong word for what they’re doing, but they’re— together. Definitely together. It’s not a huge difference from when they weren’t together, if Bellamy’s honest. Apart from the fucking they still fight like crazy, near constantly; drive each other and their friends up the wall.
He and Clarke are volatile together, everyone knows that.
They met when Bellamy was new to the scene, just coming off his first album, and Clarke was—well, young. Not new to the scene, because with a family like the Griffins, Clarke had been in the scene her whole life, even if technically her first single had only come out a month before Bellamy’s album.
The first time they met was at an awards show afterparty, introduced by one of the the head honchos at their shared label. She was 18, he was 23, and they fucking hated each other.
It was mostly his fault, if he’s honest.
He knew who Clarke was from the get-go and resented her for it, and when she smiled at him, all pretty and blonde and demure, and told him she loved his music, he laughed in her face like an asshole.
“Can’t say the same,” he had replied, he remembers now with a cringe.
And Clarke wasn’t someone to take that lying down. It probably wouldn’t have mattered if they weren’t signed to the same label, Hollywood being a big place, but they were.
He doesn’t know if someone higher up was doing it on purpose, but they ran into each other constantly. At awards shows, in the office, booked on top of each other in the recording studio. They played the same festival circuit, ended up with the same group of friends, and eventually they just— got used to each other.
The fighting leant itself to a certain degree of sexual tension between them, and it was never surprising to him. Clarke was beautiful, obviously, and hot as hell. Even when they hated each other he knew that. And try as he might to hate her music on principal, she was a good fucking singer: her voice sweet and sultry at the same time, her lyrics well-written, melodies haunting. After a while, Bellamy found that he didn’t hate her as much as he thought.
When they finally got together, it surprised exactly no-one.
When they break up, it surprises only him.
It was easier, he thinks, back when they were both on tour. It’s easy not to fight with someone when you only get to see them for a few hours, but once they’re both back in LA to work on their new albums, well—
Bellamy doesn’t even remember what the fight is about afterwards, he just remembers the conclusion. They’re in his apartment, arguing like they always do, but something— something just breaks.
“I’m not doing this with you anymore, do you hear me?” Clarke yells, her red face framed with a frizz of gold like a halo. “This is it, I’m done.”
“Really, princess, you’re finished?” he spits back. “You’re just gonna quit?”
“Yes! Who are we even kidding? It was never going to work.” There are tears in her eyes, and her chest heaves. “This? Us? It’s over, Bellamy.”
He feels the anger leave him in a second, confusion taking its place. No matter how much they fought, they’d never— it wasn’t like this. They don’t say things like that, not ever. “What?”
“It’s over,” Clarke says again, her voice flat. Bellamy watches silently as she grabs her stuff, pulling her shoes on. He doesn’t say anything as she puts her jacket on, doesn’t say anything as she leaves.
He calls his bandmates and gets blackout drunk afterwards.
“I ruined it,” he remembers crying to Miller, his last clear memory of the night. “I’ll never see her again.”
Turns out he shouldn’t have worried so much. Less than a week later, he’s balls deep in Clarke’s tight heat, fucking her up against the sink in the bathroom of some shitty club in downtown LA that the paps don’t bother haunting.
“I knew you were full of shit,” Bellamy practically purrs, flipping her hair over her shoulder so he can get his teeth on her neck. Clarke moans as he pounds into her, her cheek pressed into the mirror. Her breath fogs up the glass and Bellamy grins savagely. “I knew you’d come back.”
“That’s not what this is,” Clarke grits out between pants, grinding down hard on the fingers he has on her clit. He rubs harsh circles over the hood, just the way he knows she likes, feeling her start to break around him.
“What is it, then?” he asks, nipping at the juncture of her shoulder. His hips stutter as her cunt spasms in orgasm; coming on his cock for him, so good for him. Bellamy’s eyes close and he leans forward, shuddering.
He spills into Clarke with a groan.
Bellamy holds her around the stomach as he comes down, panting into her neck. Their skin is damp with sweat, sticking together where they’re pressed up against each other. He pushes himself up slightly to brush a sweaty curl away from her face.
“What is this, Clarke?” he asks again, lips curling slightly.
Clarke blinks back at him, and shoots right for the heart. He should’ve expected it, really.
“A mistake.”
****
If it’s a mistake, it’s one she makes again.
Again and again, really. Not every weekend, but often enough Bellamy almost stops worrying. Maybe Clarke won’t be his girl in name, but she still feels like his. Still sounds like she’s his, when she’s moaning his name.
Emotionally, it’s not ideal. Their relationship was never the neatest, never the easiest; both of them too scared of showing the other their belly to be straightforward about their feelings. But at least it had been a relationship and not a— whatever this was.
Not that this was bad, necessarily. Certainly better than nothing.
There’s something darkly satisfying in it, in watching her across a dance-floor: the beautiful, famous Clarke Griffin flirting with some leggy Victoria’s Secret model; and knowing that her eyes are still on him. Knowing that the minute Bellamy leaves the club, it will be his phone she’s hitting up, his bed she’ll be writhing in later that night.
He’ll take it.
What Bellamy could do without, though, is the article.
It’s one of those things he never really gets used to, being famous. He always forgets that people care what he’s doing, and with whom. Forgets people care what those people he’s doing things with think about him.
It’s his publicist who sends it to him first; though Murphy is a close second, that sadistic bastard. She sends a scan of it attached to an email, with the subject line “US Weekly—This is not good!”, and he doesn’t even bother to open it. Murphy, on the other hand, sends a shitty iPhone photo as a text, the message reading: “this u?”
Bellamy reads that one immediately, and wishes he hadn’t.
It’s about his break-up with Clarke, something he thought the news cycle had already fully wrung of all its content, but apparently not. It’s mostly a rehash of all the shit that’s already been said, and he wouldn’t give a shit if it wasn’t for the interview at the end.
Sources close to Clarke say the split is less than amicable. “She sees all his flaws clearer now that it’s over,” a friend of the singer told US Weekly. “She doesn’t regret ending it at all.”
Is there any hope that fans of the couple will see a future reconciliation? It doesn’t seem likely. “Not a chance in hell,” our source confirmed. “Clarke has explicitly told me she hates him.”
They don’t name the source, so really it could be anyone, but Bellamy doesn’t doubt it could be the truth. Well, the part about her telling her friends she hates him, at least.
In fact, he’s almost certain she told her friends she hates him, because they’re his friends too. He just thinks she’s lying, if not to them then to herself.
He hopes she’s lying.
If he’s honest, the article makes him a little angry. Not enough to do anything crazy like actually talk to Clarke about it, but enough that the next time some girl flirts with him at the club, he flirts back.
The girl is pretty, a tall brunette wearing a pair of heels that almost put her over him height-wise. She knows him by name even though Bellamy doesn’t recognize her, which doesn’t mean anything really. She could be a fan, or just somebody outside his circle of C-list celebrities. Bellamy doesn’t branch out much.
Not like Clarke, who’s across the room in the VIP section, sitting next to a fucker Bellamy knows for a fact is up for Sexiest Man Alive this year. He purposefully avoids looking over at her, focusing on the girl at his side. What was her name again? Emily? Georgia? He wasn’t listening when she told him.
Would Bellamy be letting the brunette hang off his arm if he didn’t know Clarke was watching? Probably not.
But she’s the one who dumped him, so really why should he care?
He buys the girl a drink, letting her keep talking at him. He nods and smiles in the right places, adds a few purring innuendos of his own so she blushes. When someone tries to get around her he puts his hand on her waist, tugging her against his body.
She gives him a look so enraptured, he starts to feel a little guilty.
It’s not too mean of him, he thinks. They’re at a club, it’s not like the girl is expecting a marriage proposal just because he flirts with her, just a one-night stand. And maybe he could sleep with her, really. She’s pretty enough, so what’s stopping him? Maybe he will bring her home with him.
The back of his neck prickles, feeling Clarke’s eyes, and he lets out a sigh. He won’t sleep with this girl, he knows it. He’s just using her, and it’s unfair. He’s not this kind of person.
His hand falls away, and he steps back. “Anyways, I should go find my band-mate, make sure he’s not getting into trouble,” Bellamy says, giving the girl an apologetic smile. Murphy’s in the crowd somewhere, so it isn’t too much of a lie, but he’ll probably just go to the bathroom and hide out. “It was nice to meet you though, Gina.”
The brunette frowns, crestfallen. “It’s Jenny.”
Bellamy winces. “Right, sorry. Anyways, see you around.”
He hightails it across the floor, ducking into the men’s room. He looks at himself in the mirror and glares at his reflection, leaning on his palms against the counter. An unhappy noise leaves his throat.
He’s getting too old for this shit.
It’s late enough, he decides, that he can just leave. Bellamy heads out of the bathroom to find Murphy for real, tell him he’s leaving, but a hand snags his wrist as soon as he steps out of the hallway.
“Who was she?” Clarke asks, her voice husky in his ear.
Bellamy feels satisfaction zing hot down his spine. “What does it matter to you?”
They’re back against the far wall of the club, under the overhang of the VIP section. The dance-floor is packed and the corner is dark, hiding them from any prying eyes. He can feel her body press up against him in just the right way, fitting into his like a puzzle piece. “It doesn’t.”
Bellamy quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”
His fingers sweep her hair over her shoulder, trailing down the line of her spine. He snatches her arm and pulls, turning her so her back is pressed up against his front, her ass rubbing on the hard length of his cock. He slides his hand over her belly, pushing her back so she can feel it, feel him.
His lips ghost over the curve of her neck, nipping at the juncture of her shoulder. Clarke lets out a groan, her head falling to the side, and he grins.
“She was pretty, huh, Clarke?” he taunts, grinding against her ass. “Maybe I should’ve brought her home with me.”
“Maybe you should’ve,” Clarke hits back, but her voice is breathy. Bellamy’s hands skate up her thighs, sneaking under her dress. “What was her name?”
Bellamy groans lowly into her ear as his fingers hit the slick crotch of her panties. “None of your business.”
They shouldn’t be doing this here. It’s fucking stupid of them to be doing this here, no matter how dark, no matter how thick the crowd on the dance-floor. Someone could see them, someone could take a picture, and then the paparazzi would be all up in their business, and Bellamy’s publicist would scream at him, and he’d have to do another fucking interview where he talks about how he and Clarke are just good friends now, really.
He sinks his fingers into her cunt anyways.
“So wet for me,” he says. Clarke jerks her chin in a tight nod, canting her hips toward his palm where it’s pressed against her clit. “Do you think she was wet for me too?”
Clarke makes a strangled noise and he clucks his tongue. Bellamy’s hand grinds over her clit, pressing her ass back into his hard cock. “Maybe not as wet as you.” He slips another finger into her, feeling the clench of her pussy around him. “She seemed like a good girl.” Bellamy lets his lips trace over the curve of her shoulder, up the line of her neck to her jaw. His teeth graze her earlobe. “Not my girl, though.”
He fucks her on his fingers hard, the bass of the dance music humming through both their chests. Clarke groans, tugging her skirt down to cover his hand with one hand, the other wrapping up and around behind her head to pull his face closer to her.
“Bellamy,” she pants. “Please.”
She tugs him into a searing kiss, eyes pressed shut tight and brow furrowed as his clever fingers keep working at her. She’s getting close, he can feel it.
Clarke likes the crowd.
“Then again,” Bellamy mutters against her lips, pinching her clit. Clarke’s hips jerk against him but he holds her steady. “You’re not my girl either, are you, princess?”
He moves to pull his hand away but she catches his wrist. “Fuck you,” Clarke whispers. “Finish it.”
Bellamy laughs darkly into her ear, but who is he to say no? Not to her, anyways. He circles her clit with renewed vigor, his other hand pressing over her pubic bone, sealing his hips to hers. He noses at her neck, teeth sinking into the skin there as he takes a deep breath of Clarke.
She smells just right, like sweat and soap and flowers. She smells like she’s going to get fucked in his bed, just like he wants.
Just like she wants too.
She cries out as she comes, and he slips two fingers into her cunt just to feel it grasping at him perfectly. Bellamy holds her up as she sags against him in the aftershocks, arms wrapped around her small body, his wet fingers soaking into the thin fabric of her dress.
“Come home with me,” he whispers into her hair, and she pulls back to look at him, turning in the circle of his arms.
Clarke swallows hard, her jaw tight as she searches his face for—something, he’s not sure what.
“What was her name?” she asks again, her tone demanding.
It’s not what he’s expecting. She’s so fucking beautiful like this; her hair loose and unruly around her shoulders, skin flushed from her orgasm even under the flashing lights of the club. Bellamy blinks at her and answers honestly: “I have no fucking idea.”
Clarke’s lips curl into a feral grin. “Then let’s go.”
****
He has her up against a wall the minute his apartment door is unlocked.
Their fingers are laced together, pressed up over her head as he devours her mouth, their kisses filthy and brutal. Her dress is hiked up around her waist, wet panties flush against the zipper of his jeans, her legs wrapped tight around his hips.
He gets her off for the second time just like that, grinding up against the wall. Clarke’s head tilts back, mouth open as she moans, and Bellamy picks her up before she’s even done coming, carrying her over to his bedroom.
He sets her down on her feet, teeth nipping at her lips. His hands tug her dress off her shoulders, pushing it down so it hits the floor. Her panties go next, cute little pink lacy things, and then her bra.
Her ass bounces across the mattress as he tosses her onto it.
Bellamy stands back, looking at her. His jaw flexes.
Clarke pants at him, her blue eyes wide in the dim light, palms pressing into his sheets. “What are you waiting for?”
“I think—” he say sharply, stepping towards the bed. He tugs his shirt over his head and drops it beside her dress, fingers moving down to unbutton his pants. “—that I want you to suck my cock.”
She only blinks at him once before crawling over the bed, perfect girl that she is. Bellamy’s lips twist up as she takes over for him, unzipping his pants and pulling out his cock like she’s unwrapping a present.
God, he wants to keep her. God, he wishes she would stay.
God, her lips feel perfect wrapped around his fat cock.
His hands sink into her hair, holding her head so he can thrust into her mouth. Clarke lets him do it, lets him shove his way down her throat, lets him fuck her face til she’s gagging on his length, pretty tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.
She likes it, when he uses her hard like that. Before they started fucking, he never would’ve expected it from Clarke, total control freak that she is; but she loves it. She loves not being in charge sometimes, loves letting herself be taken, at least when it’s someone she trusts.
And despite everything, she still trusts him.
Bellamy pushes her face down to the root of his cock, so she’s swallowing him down all the way, and holds her there, stroking her hair. “You’re so fucking good for me,” he says, and Clarke moans around him, the sound vibrating through his cock. “Fuck.”
It’s too good.
He pulls her off of him and kicks off his pants, pushing Clarke back onto the bed and climbing over her. Her lips are swollen and red and wet with pre-come, and Bellamy groans as he tastes himself on her mouth.
His hands run all over her body, feeling every inch of soft skin like it’s a goddamn satin sheet under his fingers. Clarke’s fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the dark curls as she crushes her lips to his. Bellamy lets out a chuckle, unwinding them from his hair and lacing them with his own, holding her hands so he can tear his mouth away from hers.
She looks at him for a second, gaping, before he dives between her legs.
“Oh, please,” she begs. “Bellamy, I—” Her fist covers her mouth, cutting off her words as she bites down on her own skin.
He brings her over the edge once, hands pressing into her belly to hold her hips down as he sucks hard on her clit, then forces her right back up again, till she’s right on the precipice. Only then does he surface, triumphant, wiping his wet chin against her thigh before crawling up her body.
“Good?” Clarke nods frantically and he grins, pressing a kiss to the corner of her jaw. “Good enough that you’ll stay?”
He grinds his hips down against her wet cunt, slicking his heavy cock in her arousal. The head bumps against her clit and he pulls back, holding himself above her.
She’s beautiful, she’s so fucking beautiful. Clarke is a glorious mess beneath him, her head thrown back, eyes closed tight, and mouth open as she gasps for him just like he wants, just like he knew she would.
“What do you say, princess?” Bellamy asks, his hand spanning the breadth of her throat. His eyes glitter darkly as he stares down at her. “Will you stay this time?”
A divot appears between her eyebrows even as her hips jerk against his, desperate for contact. Clarke shakes her head.
“It’s over,” she says, but it isn’t.
Not when she’s in his bed, not when she’s in his arms. Not when her clothes are scattered across his bedroom floor.
It’s not over. It’ll never be over, not with Bellamy, not with Clarke. There’s too much there, too much that fits just right.
He captures her mouth with his own, sinking his teeth into her lower lip. “Maybe next time, then.”
And then he’s fucking her, long cock bottoming out in her hot cunt. He can tell it’s a stretch for Clarke, it always is, but he likes it that way. Likes the way she wiggles when he first plunges in: her face tight, thighs trembling as she gets used to the pinch, the burn.
He wants to ruin her.
He wants to have her every night. Every morning, too.
God, Bellamy fucking misses her.
Her arms circle his abdomen, fingernails biting into the skin of his back as he works his cock in and out of her cunt, but he doesn’t mind. He likes it when she leaves marks, like it when she lets him leave them back.
“You’re mine, you know that?” he growls into Clarke’s gold hair, pounding into her. “Still fucking mine.”
She doesn’t disagree with him for once, just pulls him closer, and he’s grateful for it.
It’s too much, the tight clutch of her cunt, and Bellamy rubs her clit fast and hard, desperate to feel her come apart on his cock.
“Fuck, Bellamy,” Clarke cries, her walls staring to flutter around him. Bellamy sucks at her throat and pulls back, watching her face as she shatters perfectly for him. The aftershocks wring his own climax from him, pulling pleasure from his belly til his hips are jerking against hers, cock spilling hot into her tight cunt, marking her.
He flops to the mattress, panting, and gathers her in his arms; pulling her sated body over him so her head rests on his chest. His fingers stroke through her hair.
Clarke.
****
She stays the night, but just barely.
It’s seven in the morning when he wakes up, feeling her shifting in his arms. The room is bright with morning sun, the blinds wide open, sky clear and blue. Bellamy nuzzles into Clarke’s hair, arms tightening for a second before letting her go. “Good morning.
She untangles herself from his embrace, and he feels the chill as the warmth of her body slips from his reach. “Yeah,” she says. “Let me get out of your hair.”
Clarke moves to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling on her clothes. Bellamy scoots across the mattress, leaning against her back.
He sweeps her hair to the side, nosing at the soft skin below her ear, and Clarke tilts her chin up, giving her more space. His arms wrap around her belly, stilling her motions.
“You don’t have to go,” he mumbles into her neck. “I miss you.”
Clarke lets out a breath through her teeth, her eyes closed. Bellamy can feel her stiffen, her spine drawing up straight.
“It’s over,” she says, like she always does.
Bellamy sighs, pulling away to lean against the headboard, one arm tucked behind his head.
“Fine,” he says flatly, his tone maybe a little petulant. His heart beats loud in his chest, heavy with frustration. “But I love you.”
Clarke lets out a shuddering breath, a choked laugh falling from her lips. “Don’t— you can’t say that to me.”
“Why not?” She looks sharply at him and Bellamy just raises one eyebrow, frowning. “It’s the truth.”
He knows why not and it’s because they don’t say shit like that. They don’t talk about their feelings, they don’t tell each other how they feel, and frankly? It’s stupid, and he’s tired of it. He’s done with it.
Bellamy loves her.
She should know.
“I don’t—” Clarke shakes her head, standing up. Her eyes are wild, shoulders high. “I have to go.”
He lets out a breath through his teeth, watching as she leaves. When the door of his apartment clicks shut, Bellamy closes his eyes, squeezing them shut tight against the emotions that bubble up through his chest.
“Fuck.”
****
The next Saturday plays out much the same as the ones before it, but that’s wrong because now she knows.
He sees her at some club, she finds him, they kiss, he takes her home.
He shouldn’t do it, now that she knows, but Bellamy can’t help it, not with Clarke. He has to shake his head to knock the fantasies out of it, running his hands up and down her soft body, but it doesn’t work. She shouldn’t be here, now that she knows, not if she doesn’t want him.
Not if she doesn’t want to be with him.
So he asks it anyways, just like he always does.
“Will you stay this time?” Bellamy murmurs into the hollow of her throat, thumb circling the bud of her nipple.
“Yes,” Clarke gasps, and he smiles. “Yes.”