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“Hey,” Clarke whispers into the darkness of Bellamy’s bedroom. “You up?”
“I’m up,” Bellamy says in a normal tone. He turns on his bedroom light and they both squint at the brightness. “I have the food and pillows and blankets,” Clarke says, blinking rapidly to get used to the light. “You packed the rest?”
Bellamy nods and grabs a sweater from his closet. “Tent, cooler, firewood, towels. It’s all in the car. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me breaking up the ice for the cooler this morning. It all froze in one big block and I had to smash it with a rolling pin.” Clarke laughs, and follows him out of his bedroom, flicking the light back off. “I packed the rest of the stuff last night, I just didn’t put it into the car. I need you to take the pillows.”
Bellamy grins and rests his hand on the small of her back. “You out-prepared me. I should have known.” He takes the pillows and the food to the car, leaving Clarke with only a bag of blankets. She locks the house without putting anything down and walks the bag to the car. Bellamy puts the bag into the trunk and they load up in Clarke’s Acura and pull out into the still-blue morning, out of the house before the birds even wake up.
The beach is an hour southeast but the roads are so empty that it only takes Clarke fifty minutes to get them there. The sky is starting to lighten, and Clarke drives down the highway towards the glow in the sky. The Atlantic appears on the horizon forty minutes into the drive and Clarke feels almost relieved to see it. She loves beach days, Thursdays and Fridays in summer where they drive to the coast and it’s just her and Bellamy in a bubble of happiness for a whole day. They’ve done it many times as friends or in a group and one as friends with benefits. This is the first time they’re going to the beach as what they are now.
Clarke’s not certain what they are now but it’s different from the fuck-when-convenient Clarke and Bellamy of half a year ago. Bellamy doesn’t just finish her off after a bad tinder date or a dead sex toy anymore. He used to to come into her room a couple times a month, fuck the brains out of her and then go about his business. For a while, that was the way they both preferred it. Now he moans her name into her shoulder during missionary, fucks her over the counter while his breakfast is cooking before he leaves for work, lets her fall asleep in his bed and wake up nearly in his arms.
They’re five minutes away and Bellamy rolls down the window to let salty air blow into the car. Clarke shivers, but she likes the sensation, the freshness of coastal air after a long drive. She breathes in the smell of salt and morning and looks over to Bellamy, who has his head out the window like a dog. Clarke laughs and watches his hair blow in her side mirror. His eyes are closed and his face is serene. Days like these are as much his happy place as they are hers. She exits the highway and navigates to the beach parking lot, which has a whopping two other cars whose drivers were up equally early.
They unload the car in the cool morning wind and manage to take everything in one trip. Bellamy climbs down the wooden stairs winding down the coastal cliff, Clarke following slowly with two bags to an arm. On the sand, they walk for a few minutes before Bellamy stops in a divot in the cliff wall. The shape of the rock is like a tiny bay, slightly sheltered from the wind and the rest of the beach. They pitch the tent in the center of the C-shaped patch of sand, wind billowing in the tarpaulin. They manage to get it down and Bellamy places stakes in all four corners. Clarke tosses in the blankets and pillows and climbs in.
Bellamy takes off his shoes and follows, and then they’re both in the coziness of the tent, watching the sky turn from blue to orange to yellow. The beach is empty except for a few surfers and a boat on the horizon. Orange light glitters on the sea and silhouettes the surfers, the sun slowly starting to rise behind them. Clarke strips off her hoodie and pants and lays on the spread blankets to watch it. Bellamy lies next to her, taking off his shirt and letting a finger play absently with her bikini top’s strings. The sunrise bathes their tent in orange, gradually yellowing light and Clarke is languid in it, feels rich in the lazy sun and Bellamy’s warm hand moving on her back. It’s a slow paradise, a perfect moment of existence where everything is right and calm.
Bellamy’s hand is warm and heavy, and after a few minutes it’s gliding casually down to her ass, his hands following the curves there and his fingers gently brushing over her bikini bottom. Clarke lets him take his time touching her, running his fingers under her bikini strings and down her spine to her ass and gently stroking between her legs. A pleasure as slow as the morning sweeps through her and Clarke exhales and closes her eyes, the golden light of the sunrise partially shining through her eyelids.
Bellamy doesn’t even smirk, just continues rubbing her slit over her bikini bottom. He knows she wants him to pull the tiny scrap of fabric covering her pussy to the side and gently rub his fingertips through the slick between her legs, so he does. Bellamy strokes gently and listens to her occasional sighs when a fingertip starts to slip inside. After a few minutes, he can’t resist lifting her ass up and looking at her pussy from behind, nestled perfectly between her thighs below her ass, pink and shining. He spreads her with his thumb and forefinger and she whimpers quietly. Gently, he inserts the tip of his middle finger inside her and strokes around, unhurried. He listens to her sharp exhale when he pushes his finger in halfway, still exploring her body as if hadn’t explored it a thousand times already. Clarke moans softly.
Bellamy slips the rest of his finger in, burying it to the knuckle and curling it. Clarke lets out a real moan then and this time Bellamy does smirk. Bellamy slowly moves his finger in and out of her, watching the bright horizon and listening to the moans he coaxed from her. “My pretty girl,” he mutters, closing his eyes and slipping another finger inside to hear her moan louder. She does, and he curls his fingers inside her and she wails with pleasure, loud enough for the sea to hear it.
He takes his sweet time bringing her to orgasm, slowly pumping his fingers in and out of her and watching them shine with her slick in the morning light. Sometimes, he stops and just rubs the outside of her pussy, almost playing with it, just feeling the wetness that’s all for him. Bellamy does it until she whines in frustration and it's a reflex to slip his fingers back inside her, to start pleasing her again.
He moves to kneel between her legs and spreads them with his knees. Clarke moans loudly when the angle of his fingers changes inside her. Bellamy slides his other hand under her and finds her clit. He rubs circles on it until she’s moaning his name and soaking his hands. Bellamy wants to put his mouth on her, but it’s so much more satisfying to finish her with just his fingers. He knows her body so well he can play her like a fiddle, can bring her to the edge of orgasm and leave her there or make her come in five minutes.
Bellamy curls his fingers one more time and she comes, with a loud moan of Bellamy and a rush of fluid on his fingers. He kisses her back and slides his fingers out of her, letting her come down. It’s tempting to watch her juices drip out of her pussy, but the mess is more trouble than it’s worth, so he takes a towel and dabs gently between her legs to soak up the fluid. “That better be the sex towel,” Clarke says as he’s drying his fingers on it. “It is,” he says. “I wouldn’t ruin your precious mermaid towel with pussy juice.”
Clarke laughs and rolls onto her back. Bellamy takes a moment to appreciate her, glowing post-orgasm, the golden light of the sun turning her skin a rich color. He wants to tell her she looks like a goddess, but instead he kisses her cheekily between her legs. She laughs again and swats his head away. “Quit staring at me, Bell. Look at the sunrise! Look at all those colors.” Clarke tilts her head back out of the tent until her blonde hair is resting against the sand. “Will you get my watercolors out of my backpack?” Every time they go somewhere pretty, Clarke brings her set of mini-watercolors, a couple brushes, and her sketchbook. She’s painted so many sunsets and sunrises her orange paint is nearly worn down to nothing. Sometimes, she brings charcoals and draws him.
Right now, Bellamy doesn’t want her to paint. He runs his hands over her waist, appreciating the curve in and then out as his hands skate down her hips. He presses a kiss to her stomach, her torso, between her breasts, along her neck and then weaves his hand in her hair and kisses her lips passionately. Bellamy moves back down to kiss her neck before she can start kissing him back. “Maybe you can paint later,” he mumbles into her neck between kisses. “The sunrise isn’t going anywhere.”
He can practically hear Clarke rolling her eyes. “It is going somewhere, Bellamy. That’s the whole point of a sunrise. They’re beautiful and impermanent.”
Bellamy pauses kissing her neck at that. Beautiful and impermanent. “They always come back,” he says, resuming kissing her neck. Clarke sighs dramatically. “Yes, but they’re subtly different every time,” she says. She doesn’t stop him from kissing a line down her neck to the top of her breasts. “Maybe,” Bellamy says. “But maybe that’s the beauty in them. Always beautiful, never the same, happening every morning forever. You don’t have to capture every sunrise. Isn’t it enough to just let them happen sometimes?” He rests his chin on her chest and looks up at her.
Clarke looks down at Bellamy’s face resting between her breasts. It’s bathed in golden light, and his dark eyes appear almost yellow in the light. In a way, she paints these sunrises for Bellamy. She always dates them in the corner with black pen, month-day-year, so she can look at it whenever she wants and remember what the sky looked like on a perfect day with Bellamy. His chin is warm on her chest and his eyes are compelling. Maybe she can paint the blue sky today. Bellamy’s curls against a blue-and-white backdrop. It’s always hard to paint his face. She never gets it quite right; Bellamy has some twinkle in his eye or spring in his step that she just can’t seem to capture. Clarke isn’t sure any artist could do it. Bellamy is too vibrant to be immortalized perfectly on a two-dimensional plane.
“Fine,” she says. “But I might make you pose for me later.” Bellamy grins cheekily and slides his hands up her sides. “Fine by me,” he says. Then he’s kissing under her breasts, and Clarke sighs into him. It feels good to let him win, and even better that his thumbs are skating up her skin. Her bikini ties in the front, and Bellamy loosens the tie without looking at it. When the two sides of her bikini fall open, Bellamy does look. She watches his eyes flick down to the curve of her breasts, the slight tan line from a skimpier swimsuit, her firm pink nipples. He palms the sides of her breasts unhurriedly but with a sly sort of confidence, cockiness maybe, like they’re his to touch. Bellamy runs his hands up and down her body once, twice, before he stops at her breasts again and begins massaging them slowly, brushing his thumbs over her nipples just roughly enough to make her sigh.
It’s moments before he takes one into his mouth, sucking gently on her nipple. Clarke wants him to do more, but she knows he’s just warming her up. It’s what he does. Riles her up slowly, pleases her until she’s more than ready to have him inside her. It’s frustrating, wanting more and being made to wait.
Clarke loves it every time.
Bellamy sucks hard, and Clarke feels a spike of real pleasure, a sharp feeling that cuts through the hazy arousal Bellamy has been stirring in her body. Roughly, he squeezes her other breast and rolls the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He continues to suck hard on her other breast, and Clarke can’t stop herself from moaning, can’t bring herself to care how loud her pleasure is.
A finger strokes gently over her pussy. Clarke’s moan is more like a yelp of surprise. When had he taken her bikini bottoms off? But then he’s rubbing his fingers through her folds and his finger lands on her already sore clit, and Clarke’s mind goes blank. Bellamy is still sucking on her breast, and the dual sensation feels so fucking good Clarke never wants it to end. He slips the tip of his finger inside her and curls it gently, giving a gentle pressure on her g-spot. “Oh, Bell,” Clarke moans, running her fingers through his curls. He pulls off of her nipple and grins up at her. She likes the dark lust she sees in his eyes. She loves to see that darkness when he’s fucking her roughly, a powerful, consuming feeling he fucks into her. Clarke feels a wave of heat in her gut imagining it.
The face she makes at Bellamy is pleading. “Bellamy,” she whines, writhing against the finger still curling and uncurling inside her. “Please fuck me, Bell,” she begs. He loves when she begs for him. To Clarke, it feels like she’s letting him win.
Bellamy smirks. “Only because you beg so pretty for me, princess,” he says, brushing his lips down her skin. “Just let me taste you. Just for a minute,” he says. He starts kissing down her body, over her breasts, down her torso, over her stomach, at the top of her pubic bone. As soon as Clarke sighs out a contented “Okay,” his lips are sealed around her clit and his tongue is massaging it quickly. Clarke lets out a shout that turns into a moan, bucking her hips away from him reflexively at the sudden shock. Bellamy doesn’t let her away, locking his arms around her thighs. He takes a break from her clit to lick up and down her slit, to taste the warm wetness that’s all for him.
Clarke isn’t sure how much time passes before Bellamy lifts his head up to rest it on her thigh. “Can I make you come, princess? Can you handle one more before I fill that pretty pussy up?” She’s nodding before he finishes his sentence. Clarke is already halfway there, it won’t take long to finish her off and then she can have that warm, freckled cock inside her. Bellamy grins like he knows what she’s thinking. “Alright, pretty girl. Let’s have you come on my mouth.” He puts his mouth back on her and Clarke’s head falls back. He pushes moans from her mouth until she curls forward and tangles her hands more tightly in his hair. Her body convulses and with a shout of Bellamy and a rush of liquid Clarke’s coming.
Bellamy dries his mouth off on the towel and gently pats her legs and pussy with it while she comes down. “Bell,” she sighs contentedly. “Yes, Princess?” he asks teasingly. He starts sliding his hand up her leg, over her hips and waist. Clarke groans and swats his hand away. “Give me a minute,” she mumbles. “That was so intense.” Bellamy laughs, and she can see the flicker of smugness in his face for knowing her body so well. No one else makes Clarke come like that, and Bellamy knows it.
The sun has left the horizon and the golden morning light is starting to turn yellow and bright. Clarke closes her eyes and soaks it in. Bellamy insisted on slathering her in sunscreen, and it seems like it will pay off. The day grows warmer by the minute. Things are always cooler on the beach, but Clarke wouldn’t be surprised if it hit ninety. She only has her eyes closed for a few minutes before Bellamy’s rough fingers start plucking at her nipples. Clarke’s eyes fly open and she squeals in surprise. Bellamy is hovering over her. “Are you ready, pretty princess?” Clarke used to hate that nickname, but now she loves it. Bellamy rolls her nipple between two fingers as casually as he’d twirl a pencil. “Yes,” Clarke moans. “Inside. Please,” she whimpers, as his other hand comes up to squeeze her opposite beast.
“As you wish,” he whispers, and then his lips are on hers. Clarke can faintly taste herself on his tongue - not quite sour, not quite metallic, but something adjacent. Bellamy bites her lip and she sighs. Clarke snakes her hand between them to grip his erection through his swim shorts and Bellamy thrusts into it with a groan. “Shit, Clarke,” he mumbles. Clarke squeezes lightly, and Bellamy snaps. His shorts are off faster than she can process and his tip is pressing against her seconds later.
“Bellamy,” Clarke moans. Bellamy’s looking down at his cock in his hand, pressed against her pussy. “Shhhh,” he says. “Be patient, Princess.” He pushes the tip into her folds and runs it up and down her slit, spreading her juices onto him. It’s so close to feeling good but it’s not enough, and Clarke groans in frustration. “Please,” she begs. It’s a façade, Clarke loves to beg for it and Bellamy loves to hear it. “Please fuck me, Bell,” she groans, trying to push her hips down onto his cock. She doesn’t even get a half inch in before Bellamy catches her hips and stops her. “I know, pretty girl,” he soothes. “I know.” He rubs his cockhead against her clit, slipping and sliding it around in her wetness, and she moans despite the soreness in her clit. Finally, finally, he notches his tip inside her and slides in in one long, smooth thrust. Clarke is so wet that there’s no resistance.
“Oh god,” she whimpers. Clarke loves the stretch of Bellamy’s cock. She has since the first time they fucked, drunk and horny after a night of clubbing and grinding on strangers. “I love that cock,” she babbles. “I love that thick cock inside me, Bellamy. Feels so good,” Bellamy exhales raggedly and moves his hands to her hips. He starts slowly, watching his cock move in and out of her, her slickness shining on it. “Such a pretty pussy, Clarke,” he murmurs. “I love fucking this pussy, Clarke. I love your pink pussy wrapped around my cock,” he growls. Clarke moans more from his words than the sensation. His dirty talk is so hot, it’s some of the best she’s ever experienced. Bellamy makes her feel so sexy, like he’s making her his with his thick cock and dirty words.
Bellamy snaps his hips against her and Clarke moans loudly. “You want it rough, princess?” he says, pausing inside her. “You want a good hard fucking?” Clarke squeezes around him and pushes her tits upwards. “Yessss,” she moans. Bellamy plucks her nipples and gives each breast a squeeze before he speaks again. “Of course you do,” he says. “My pretty girl likes to be used.”
She’s barely registered his words before he’s pounding her, his thighs slapping hard against her ass and filling the tent with loud, lewd claps. Clarke wails, one of her hands moving up to pinch her nipples. Bellamy grabs her hips and changes his angle inside her. He pushes his legs farther apart and keeps fucking her, his cock dragging inside her, stretching her open, pounding right into her g-spot. “Oh, God,” Clarke moans. She can’t think. Pleasure has overtaken her body and her mind. Bellamy knows exactly how to make her feel good, and he makes her feel even better with a thumb circling on her clit. Clarke can’t moan any louder, can only lie back and take it.
She drops her hand from her breast, unable to concentrate on anything except how good Bellamy’s making her feel. “Fuck,” she groans. Bellamy hits a particularly sensitive spot inside her at a pressure that’s not quite painful. “Fuck!” She’s so close already, after five minutes of Bellamy inside her. “Don’t stop,” she moans. Bellamy takes his hand off her clit and leans forward slightly, getting him the tiniest bit deeper that makes all the difference. He knows exactly what she likes, he knows not to touch her clit once she’s close, knows when to touch her breasts, when to tease her. The attention to detail and the effort he’s put into learning her body feels like being cradled. Like he’s holding the lusty part of her heart in his hands, kissing it tenderly. He knows her, and the deep, rolling feeling of it combined with white-hot pleasure brings tears to her eyes.
“Bellamy,” she moans. “Bellamy.” His hand comes out to stroke her face. He rubs his thumb over her jaw and cups her cheek in his hand.
“Clarke,” Bellamy moans, and that’s all it takes for her to come again. She moans loudly and it tapers into a choked noise. Her body curls inward and shakes. Bellamy doesn’t stop fucking her, harder and faster so that it’s almost too intense. “Come inside me, Bellamy,” Clarke says breathily. “Fill me up. I want it all,” she groans.
“Fuck, Clarke!” Bellamy says with a sharpness and intensity that’s surprising and arousing all at once. She doesn’t always, but this time she feels him come inside her, stiff cock twitching and creating a pool of warmth inside her. “Fuck yes, Bell,” she moans as groans loudly, the peak of his orgasm passing. Bellamy moves slowly in and out of her for a few thrusts, looking down at his cock inside her, covered in a thick layer of white. “My pretty girl,” he mumbles, and then pushes his softening cock the rest of the way inside her and lies on top of her.
Clarke wraps her arms and legs around his sweaty back and gives him a long kiss on the lips, and as an afterthought, a peck on his forehead. She lies flat and lets him breathe heavily into her neck, their damp torsos fused together. The breeze blows gently into their tent, venting the smell of sex and bringing a coolness to Clarke’s exposed skin. Bellamy’s breathing evens out and they lay there together, living in their hazy bubble of post-orgasm bliss. Bellamy is heavy on top of her and still inside her, but Clarke has no desire to move. He lifts his head up out of her shoulder to stare at her for a few seconds. His eyes flick over her face, looking at all of it, jumping from her hair to her lips to her cheeks to her eyes. His eyes are dark and normal, not lit by the sun or glazed with lust, just Bellamy’s dark brown eyes staring into hers.
Clarke feels I love you on her tongue and swallows it. Those words always try to spill out in moments like these, when they are too together, too close to being one. Emotional closeness and romantic love are so similar that sometimes her emotions pretend to be love when the moment is just right. This moment is so golden and pure, and those would be the only words that fit. Not really, of course. It’s more like instinct than repressed truth. She just wants to valve this feeling of happiness, let it out or share it somehow.
And Clarke does love Bellamy, in a friend way. She tells him, sometimes, when they’re having a good time or a very bad time. But now isn’t the time for friendly love. There isn’t a way to make it sound friendly if she told him she loved him now.
Clarke’s never been as good with words as Bellamy has. She doesn’t know what to say to acknowledge this moment, something I-love-you adjacent but without the love. If there are any words for this feeling.
She settles for silence. Just being will have to be enough.
“I think it’s time for a nap,” Bellamy says above her. Clarke wants to make fun of him, coming and passing out like a teenager, but she’s tired as well. Her excuse is three orgasms, though. She’s raw from his cock and the many waves of adrenaline that surged through her body.
“Yeah, okay,” Clarke murmurs. Slowly, Bellamy pulls out, and Clarke feels cum starting to seep out of her. Bellamy’s ready with the towel, but he peeks between her legs before he wipes it off. Clarke hides a smile. Bellamy loves to creampie her, he always has. He looks almost every time. Clarke can’t really blame him - it’s hot, seeing her pussy dripping with white, Bellamy oozing out of her and stuffed deep inside.
He tosses Clarke her bikini bottoms and she puts them on. Bellamy pouts when she finds her bikini top and ties it closed. “You don’t need a top to nap,” he mutters. Clarke laughs. “Nice try.” Bellamy pulls his shorts on and they zip the net over the tent to give them a kind of half-privacy.
Clarke crawls to the pile of blankets in the corner of the tent and plops down, closing her eyes immediately. She can feel Bellamy settle in behind her as the big spoon. He rests one arm over her body and his breathing soon becomes smooth and rhythmic.
The air in the tent feels fresh and not overly warm, and sunlight shines dimly on the floor through the net. Clarke can hear the waves crashing in the distance, the sound not more than a blurry rumble from far away. The waves and Bellamy’s breathing cycle in time with each other, and it’s not long before Clarke is lulled to sleep.
—
Bellamy wakes up sometime in the afternoon still cuddled against Clarke. He opens his eyes and sits up, blinking blearily. The sound of waves crashing is much louder than when he fell asleep, and he can hear people shouting and laughing on the beach. It’s at least a few degrees warmer too; the perfect time for a swim.
Bellamy looks down at Clarke, still sleeping peacefully. He doesn’t want to swim without her, but he hates waking her up. She always looks so calm and unworried in sleep. Whenever someone wakes her up, she wakes up the way Bellamy’s mother used to: with a sharp inhale of breath and a small jump. Like she’s been forcibly pulled above water and made to take a breath. He’d rather watch her float peacefully in the deep sea of sleep.
Her hair is partially over her shoulder, partially fanned onto the pile of blankets and towels she’s using as a pillow. She’s lying on her side, so the dip in her waist is prominent. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her face, dark brown lashes with little blonde tips.
It’s times like these Bellamy wishes he could draw. He wants to capture the artistry that is Clarke, save this moment of her in all her passive beauty. Bellamy has always been more of a words man than a pictures man, so he finds his phone in one of the bags and opens his notes app to write a quick poem.
woman of grace, woman of the
sand, she lies nestled in
her own beauty
she is above purity, richer than
the filtered light from angel’s eyes
born from coals and risen newly from them with a
hotness inside, a spotless phoenix, shining over the land that is all hers.
Clarke stirs and Bellamy quickly puts his phone back in his bag. He knows Clarke is always thirsty after a nap, so he takes the plastic water bottle from the bag and zips it back up.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says. He’s aware his voice is too gentle for what they are and he has to stop himself from brushing the hair off her face and press a soft kiss to her head. “Mmm,” Clarke mumbles. “I never feel refreshed after naps.” She closes her eyes again, but Bellamy shakes her gently. “No more sleeping. I don’t want to swim by myself. You’ll wake up in the ocean.”
Clarke keeps her eyes closed for a while and then says, “Can you pass the water?”
Bellamy gives it to her and watches her swallow a third of the bottle. She blinks quickly and rubs her eyes. “Okay, I’m up,” she says in her awake voice. “Let’s swim. My bikini bottom is full of cum, I want to wash it out.” Bellamy laughs. “That’s as good a reason to swim as any,” he muses.
Clarke stands and stretches, and then bends over to dig in the pile for two towels. Her ass and pussy are directly in his face, and he can see the cum on the edges of her bikini. “Nice view,” he says, and gives her ass a hard smack. She jumps, but doesn’t turn around. “Bellamy!”
Bellamy squeezes her ass with both hands and gives it another slap. “Can’t help it,” he says. “Your ass is just so perfect.”
Clarke wiggles it tantalizingly and then laughs and stands back up. “Just like the rest of me,” she jokes.
Yes, just like her. “You’re not perfect,” he says. “You never load the dishwasher before 10pm. And you let dogs lick your face.” Bellamy stands, and he and Clarke leave the tent, blinking at the bright sunlight and adjusting to the sudden heat.
“Dogs show their love when they lick you. Love isn’t gross,” she says haughtily. Bellamy gives her a half grin. “It is when it licks its balls and then slobbers on your face.” Clarke starts walking towards the ocean. “Shut up,” she says, but Bellamy is too focused on the shape of her body against the sunny sky and the bright blue ocean. Art. She’s art.
Clarke drops her towel on the sand and starts running towards the ocean. Bellamy follows behind to watch her, whooping when her toes touch the cold water. She runs into the ocean and gets waist deep before she gets hit by a wave and disappears. She’s underwater for long enough that Bellamy starts to get worried and then she pops out of the water, spraying droplets behind her. Clarke’s hair is brown when wet and slicked down onto her body. She’s grinning.
It’s something he loves about her, her ability to play. He’s known so many girls that go to the beach to sit and look pretty. Clarke isn’t afraid of seaweed in her hair or swimming far out past the crash zone. She’ll dive to the bottom to look for shells with her eyes open, something he can’t fathom. Doesn’t the salt hurt your eyes? Can you even see? he’d asked once. Clarke had laughed, dove under the water, and come back up. I can see fine, she’d said. The salt doesn’t hurt that bad. And it’s worth it. Sometimes I see fish and I’ve found so many cool shells. Then she’d come up with handfuls of shells and show them to him like a gleeful kid.
“Come on!” she yells, and Bellamy leaves his towel with hers and wades into the surf. The water is perfect, nothing like the icy Pacific where he grew up where every touch of the water felt like a shock. A wave rises and starts to fall towards him, and Bellamy quickly dives under it. The pressure of the ocean gives him a sense of calm. Under the wave, the water is somewhat still. His hair is pushed back from the force of the wave - the water isn’t deep enough to go completely under the waves - and he surfaces with it smoothed back against his head. “The waves are big today,” he yells to Clarke. He thinks he sees her nod. “Should have brought the surfboards!” she yells. Bellamy starts half-wading, half-swimming towards her. When the water reaches his chest he gives up the wading and just starts paddling through the water, ducking under and coasting over waves.
He dives under the water and swims towards her. When he’s directly behind her, Bellamy pops up and says “Boo!”
Clarke isn’t spooked, she only laughs. “‘Boo’? That’s the best you can do?” she says. Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Sorry I don’t know how to make shark noises,” he teases. On a whim, he takes her in his arms and throws her into the air, watching as she squeals with delight before plummeting under the water. Clarke surfaces, all smiles. “I want a piggyback ride,” she says. “Take me away, seahorsey!” Clarke jumps on his back and he almost submerges, kicking his feet up and adjusting to the new weight right before his chin goes under.
“A little warning next time,” he gripes, but when Clarke locks her ankles around his waist he starts swimming. It feels so good to have her wrapped around him. Every time a section of her skin breaks contact with his he feels a sense of loss and a rush of cold water.
They swim like that for a while. Well, Bellamy swims until his muscles ache and Clarke takes a joyride. Bellamy’s panting when he finally brings her to shore. Clarke lets go of him as soon as he starts walking instead of swimming, and they wade back towards the beach together.
“I’m so hungry. It’s definitely lunchtime by now,” Bellamy says, dragging himself out of the water. Clarke nods. “Me too,” she says. “A sandwich and a beer sound really good right now.” Bellamy scoffs at her. “You weren’t the one who just swam for half an hour with a person on their back,” he gripes. Clarke laughs over her shoulder, walking through the hot sand back to their tent. Bellamy runs up behind her and knocks her over, but then catches her before she hits the ground and pulls her over his shoulder in a fire carry. It’s something he mastered with Octavia when she was a kid, and Clarke isn’t that much bigger than her. She likes it a lot more than O ever did.
Clarke’s laughing gleefully as Bellamy walks up the sand. He shamelessly squeezes both of her ass cheeks, and Clarke only says “Bellamy!” when he gives one a firm smack. He sets her back on her feet when they get back to the tent so he can unzip the door. “Grab me a beer,” Bellamy says to Clarke, who is already rooting through the cooler. “Got it,” she says. She hands him a Budweiser and a sandwich - pastrami on whole wheat for him, tuna on white for her - and settles next to him on the blanket. They talk quietly between bites, watching the glittering ocean. Clarke finishes her sandwich first and gets out her art supplies. She makes Bellamy run to the ocean and back to get her a cup of water to rinse her brushes in. “It’s right there! I’m not wasting our precious drinking water!” was her justification.
Clarke tapes off the edges of her paper and starts painting the bright blue sky with fluffy clouds, glancing occasionally out of the tent for reference. Clarke never talks when she makes art - she rarely even listens to music. For Bellamy, it’s a good opportunity to eat and just watch her.
He loves these days with Clarke, ones where they set the day aside to be together, to hang out and have fun with just the two of them. Sometimes it’s a museum, or a picnic, or a hike or something else, but they almost always go in Bellamy’s perfect memories, pristine ones where he was just happy without a catch. He doesn’t have a lot of memories like that. Most of the happy ones are tainted in some way. One Bellamy remembers is his high school potluck, and how excited he’d been that his mom had found time to take them to a school event. It had been fun until his mom got so wasted on free booze that she cussed out the vice principal and then threw up on the car ride back - and sixteen year old Bellamy had had to drive back illegally with a month-old driver’s permit. And of course, there are plenty of memories that are just plain shit.
There’s not many bad memories with Clarke, but times like this where everything is perfect he files away separately. It’s the kind of happiness people spend their whole lives chasing, and he gets to bask in it with this incredible woman. Clarke catches him staring and gives him a half smile before she goes back to her clouds. His eyes trace the curve of her back, bent over her painting. Bellamy reaches over and rubs her back lightly, watching a tiny smile appear on her face.
Bellamy’s happiness and Clarke are irrefutably tied. He’s known this for a while, since before they started sleeping together, but it’s just grown more and more obvious the more time they spend together. He’s been ignoring its implications since he realized how important to him Clarke is, but now the pieces are starting to come together.
When Clarke and Bellamy moved in together, they were both in committed relationships. Bellamy was seeing Gina, until he met Echo, who he was with for a lot longer. Clarke was with her girlfriend of two years, Lexa. They weren’t waiting to have sex until marriage, but Lexa had some religious reason for not wanting to move in with Clarke unless they were married. After six months of living together, Echo cheated on Bellamy, who left her and couldn’t make himself trust a girlfriend again. Two months after that, Lexa died in a car accident. Clarke was obviously distraught. She had to double her existing therapy and she didn’t leave the apartment for a month. Neither of them dated for a while, and after a few months they fell into a pattern of clubbing and one night stands.
A year after Lexa died, Clarke and Bellamy went clubbing and got horribly drunk. When they got back to their apartment, drunk, horny and lonely, Bellamy bent Clarke over the couch and they had fucked. After a mature conversation about it, they just kept doing it. And now it had been six more months and they were here.
Bellamy’s not sure he’d call them healed, especially not Clarke, but they’re better than they used to be. Clarke still visits the spot Lexa’s family spread her ashes, but she doesn’t freak out when she sees a car that looks like Lexa’s anymore. The line between broken and better is more of a fade than a line, but Bellamy thinks they’re both moving towards better.
It’s possible to have a life with her. He already does, honestly, it would just be a couple of changes and if he’s lucky it will last a lot longer than a fling. But love and lust are not the same thing, and though he does love Clarke, it’s platonic. Last time he checked it was anyway.
If he’s being honest, it would be so easy to love her. Bellamy knew Lexa well before she died, and he knows Clarke is a good partner. Attentive, loving, energetic. Sure, she can be a little dramatic, but so can he. It would be easy to let himself hold her close after they had sex or to touch her in a way that meant making love instead of fucking. They could merge their bedrooms and get a bigger bed - not that they don’t already sleep together often - and Clarke could have the extra room as a studio. He could set up a desk for writing and studying.
Bellamy’s falling into the daydream easily. He can imagine their life. They could get a dog like he knows Clarke has always wanted. He thinks one day, she might move to the countryside with him if he asked. They have almost the same taste in home decor anyway. He would build her a studio in their house, and a rocking chair, and a bed frame, and an easel. Whatever she wants. They’re already good together, they know that. He doesn’t think a relationship would ruin it all.
Except if he had a relationship with Clarke, he’d never be able to go back to being her friend or even her fuck buddy. He knows Clarke will settle under his skin, and even if he doesn’t marry her he’ll never forget her.
Clarke has finished the sky and is filling the bottom of the paper with navy blue. She dips the brush in seawater to dilute the paint and starts spreading it up the canvas, the blue closer to the color of the sky with the extra water. Bellamy finds her so beautiful like this, in her flow, working on her craft. The crinkle of concentration in her brow is adorable, but even with a slight frown she looks relaxed. Taking in the day the same way he is, falling into her hobby, letting the peace and the sea breeze wash over her.
So he’s in love with Clarke. Or he could be. He cares about Clarke so much that the line between romantic and platonic love is very blurry. It doesn’t matter. He’ll love her later if she lets him. If she lets him, he’ll love her for the rest of his life.
Bellamy is aware he’s getting ahead of himself, so he puts the thought out of his mind and stares at the horizon, watching the sailboats and paragliders looking like tiny shapes on the horizon. He might do it. He wants to. He wants to ask her if they could change their relationship forever, if he could be allowed to love her.
He has spent enough time thinking about this. “I’m going to dig a hole,” he announced suddenly, standing up. Clarke looks up at him and smiles. “Have fun,” she says. “Don’t make it right in front of the tent again.” Bellamy rolls his eyes and ducks out of the tent with their tiny plastic shovel. “It’s gonna be the best hole,” he says. “You’ll see. We’ll have our own little well. Infinite easy-access paint water for you.” He hears Clarke laugh inside the tent. “It’s already easy access! The ocean is a twenty second walk!” Bellamy starts digging a hole next to the tent, trying to focus on the sand.
Clarke smiles to herself and shakes her head, going back to her painting. She’s got part of the ocean done. She’s still blocking in shapes and differences in lighting between waves, but the piece is coming together. She hasn’t decided whether or not she wants to paint Bellamy on top of the landscape. From a technical standpoint it would be difficult but not impossible; trying to paint skin color on top of a blue background would take a few layers. Clarke isn’t sure if she wants another imperfect version of Bellamy on a piece. She can’t get him right. But his face is so drawable - the features, the freckles, the tanned skin and curly hair. She intends to try until she can get him right.
Clarke has a lot of drawings of Bellamy. Probably a third of her sketchbook is Bellamy in charcoal, Bellamy in pencil or colored pencils, even Bellamy in crayon once, sketched on a diner napkin. They’re varying levels of accurate. There are other faces she couldn’t get right in the past. It took a while for Clarke to correctly draw her mother, and she never drew Wells properly. This bothers her more, that she can’t get Bellamy right. She’s done enough sketches that she’s gotten every part of him right before, she just can’t seem to fit the pieces together.
It feels like that with Bellamy himself too. They had all the right parts, but for a while they couldn’t fit the pieces together. Before they were roommates, back when they first met, they were constantly at each other’s throats. When they were roommates, there had always been a strange tension between them. Clarke supposes it came from their backgrounds. Good girl, bad boy; rich bitch, white trash. They each had their fair share of issues and childhood trauma. Clarke’s friends had said they were both too headstrong to get along until they both swallowed their pride. Her friends were right - once they got over themselves, they worked perfectly together. Soon after Bellamy left Gina and Lexa was gone, that tension turned sexual. And it only took six months for it to snap.
There’s still a tension. Something new and different that’s been getting stronger over the past couple of weeks. Summer might have something to do with it; they both work less and are home more meaning they spend more time together.
Clarke tries not to think about it. She prefers to let things happen these days. It’s easier than sorting through the emotions around her relationship with Bellamy. It’s simultaneously complicated and the simplest, most sensical things in her life.
Clarke zones back in and focuses on the present. She plans to finish her painting, check out the progress on Bellamy’s hole, and then stretch out on the sand to tan with a book. She can get Bellamy to reapply sunscreen to her back. He’s never been appropriate with it, he always rubs hard almost to the point of a massage and squeezes her ass and breasts. Clarke would be lying if she said she didn’t like it, though.
She finishes her painting thirty minutes later as planned - sans Bellamy’s face - peels the tape off and dates and signs it in the corner with black pen. On the back, she writes ‘Beach with Bellamy - 3’ and then her name. Clarke sells some of her pieces, usually to a gallery to sell to customers, but she made this just for fun. She might put it up in the kitchen, they have an available wall and the right size frame. Clarke puts it on top of the cooler to dry, using an extra piece of tape to keep it from flying away. She grabs her book - some beach read she bought at an airport that she never started - and a towel, and sets up in front of the tent in the sun.
Clarke goes to see how Bellamy’s doing before she lies down. He’s still digging with gusto. The hole is about two feet in diameter and about knee-deep. It’s decent progress, given he’s only one person with a plastic shovel. “That’s coming along nicely,” she says. Bellamy nods, his brow furrowed. It’s funny how into this he is. His mind is completely set on digging a perfect hole. He’s such a man, Clarke thinks, and wanders back to her spread towel. “Come put some sunscreen on my back,” she calls back to Bellamy. “In a minute,” he says. “Just let me get this wall smooth.” Clarke smiles to herself, puts on her sunglasses and opens her book. The plot summary on the inside of the book jacket seemed just okay, so Clarke’s hoping the book will surprise her once she gets into it.
“Okay,” she hears Bellamy say, and then she hears him going into the tent to get the sunscreen. He comes up behind her and kneels. Clarke lays flat on her stomach so Bellamy can work. He squirts the sunscreen directly onto her back, and Clarke startles at the sudden cold. It warms up as he starts to massage it slowly and Clarke sighs into it, enjoying the touch. He starts at her neck and shoulders before he continues down her back, moving his hands under her bikini string and putting more sunscreen on her back halfway down. Clarke groans when he massages her lower back and squeaks when he slips his hands under her bikini bottom and squeezes her ass with both hands. Bellamy strokes a thumb over her labia, waxed smooth by a summer Brazilian. “Bellamy,” Clarke mumbles. “I don’t want sunscreen there. It’ll sting.”
“Sorry,” he says, withdrawing his hands quickly and starting to work on the backs of her legs. “It’s okay,” Clarke says coyly. “Just wash your hands before you do that.”
Bellamy finishes one leg, and as soon as he’s done massaging sunscreen into her other ankle and foot he runs towards the ocean. Clarke watches amusedly as he steps into the surf and thoroughly rubs his hands together. He runs back and shows them to her, sparkling wet in the sun. “Washed them,” he says like a proud five year old after the bathroom. Clarke looks at them for a moment. “Sanitizer too,” she decides. Bellamy huffs, but he walks back to the tent and then reappears a minute later. “All clean,” he says.
He kneels back on the tower and doesn’t hesitate to run his hands up her legs and start stroking the spot of exposed skin next to her pussy. “Bellamy,” Clarke hisses. “We’re not in the tent yet.” Clarke doesn’t see it, but Bellamy shrugs. “There’s no one nearby,” he says. “You couldn’t tell what we’re doing from far away.” He keeps stroking with his thumbs, rubbing one along the hem of her swimsuit. Clarke exhales slowly. “And what are we doing?” Bellamy says nothing, but slips his thumbs back under her bikini bottom to stroke her labia. “Nothing,” he says cheekily.
Clarke goes back to her book and Bellamy sits all the way down, still gently playing with her pussy. He circles a thumb over her pussy entrance, and swipes gently at the tiny bit of moisture there. Clarke bites her lip, trying to focus on her book. Bellamy withdraws his hand and then he’s grabbing her ass, massaging the flesh, smacking it and watching it bounce. He pulls the crotch of her bikini bottom aside and Clarke can feel his eyes burning into her. He doesn’t say anything, just strokes one long finger up and down in her wetness. Clarke feels him spread her inner labia, and for a moment the tip of his finger notches inside. Clarke inhales and his hand disappears, coming back to continue stroking up and down.
Clarke buries her face in her book and lets out a long sigh. She’s been reading the same sentence over and over since Bellamy has been touching her, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t get at least a few pages in before Bellamy has had his fill. Or until he drags her into the tent.
Bellamy keeps playing with her pussy, spreading her cheeks to get a better look at it. A finger taps on her clit, and Clarke immediately loses her place on the page again. Bellamy goes back to rubbing her ass, and she manages to read a few sentences.
Brockton liked the gym. He liked the pressure of the weights on his muscles. He liked the calmness he felt when he was there.
Brockton? Who names their main character Brockton? Clarke thinks. She tries to keep reading, but at that moment Bellamy chooses to slip one of his fingers inside of her. It goes in easily; she’s wetter than she realized. He moves slowly, pushing a single digit in and out of her, from the knuckle to the tip. When he curls his finger into her g-spot, Clarke whimpers.
He liked the calmness he felt when he was there. Brockton usually
Bellamy adds another finger and Clarke moans loudly, dropping her book. It only takes a few pumps of his rough fingers for her to cave. “Tent,” she gasps. “Let’s continue this in the tent.” She drops her shitty book on her towel and scrambles into the tent. Bellamy is on her before the zip is even closed, kissing her frantically as she blindly grabs at the zipper. Clarke leaves the shitty book on the towel and hauls Bellamy into the tent with her. He’s barely got it zipped closed when she yanks down his shorts and sits on her knees. Bellamy’s half-hard cock dangles in her face and Clarke takes the tip in her mouth. He groans softly when Clarke mouths on it, licking and kissing and lightly sucking his tip. Bellamy’s cock grows stiffer and pushes deeper into her mouth. Locking eyes with Bellamy, Clarke brings her lips from the tip of his cock to the base and sucks hard. She tastes the salt from his sweat and the ocean. Bellamy groans and fists his hand in her hair. Clarke adjusts her position and starts bobbing her head up and down.
Clarke loves sucking Bellamy off. The look in his eyes is so fiery, and she gets to enjoy his sounds of pleasure without being distracted by her own. His cockhead hits the back of her throat and Clarke swallows hard. “Fuck, Clarke,” Bellamy says, tilting his head back. Clarke smiles around his cock and closes her eyes, focusing on keeping the suction consistent. She loses herself in his grunts and quiet mutters of her name.
She knows his body well enough to know exactly when to start fondling his balls and to start sucking the tip and supplementing with her hands. Bellamy seems to be able to read her mind, curling another hand in her hair and groaning. “That feels so good, baby girl,” he mutters. “You know me so well. You’re so good at sucking me, you look so pretty with my cock in your mouth.” His words are making Clarke wet. She was going to let him cum in her mouth and lock eyes with him when she swallowed the way he likes, but she’s getting desperate to have him inside her. She’s always had a fairly high sex drive, but with Bellamy, Clarke has the same libido she did when she was nineteen.
Clarke pulls off after a few more minutes. She takes her time to worship his cock before she speaks; running the head along the seam of her lips and then pushing it in, giving gentle licks and kisses to the tip. “Bell,” she says, and she can hear the need in her own voice, “Bell, will you fuck me? I want to feel you inside me.” She looks up at him and sucks him lightly, waiting for him to respond.
“Fuck, baby, of course.” He lets her suck him for a moment longer, watching her head bob with lust-glazed eyes. As soon as Clarke pulls off his cock with a wet pop, Bellamy is untying her bikini top and has pantsed her bottoms. He pauses to run his hands down her sides, to squeeze her breasts and give a quick twist to each nipple. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and Clarke blushes. Beautiful isn’t one he says often, and it always makes a little part of Clarke melt. Ex-lovers and catcallers call her pretty or hot or sometimes things more vulgar, but she almost never gets beautiful.
Bellamy strokes between her legs with his middle finger. She’s so slick, and he feels so smug that it’s all for him. Clarke really is all for him. They both stopped sleeping with other people about two months ago. At first, it was because they were too lazy to deal with dating apps or clubs or flirting, then it was because they wanted to do it raw without having to get tested every two weeks, and now Bellamy finds himself only wanting her. She fits him like a glove, and other women never leave him as satisfied.
Bellamy grabs her waist and places her facedown on the ground. Clarke squeaks, presumably at her nipples being pressed against the rough canvas of the tent floor, and Bellamy smacks her ass. She moans and sticks it up for him, wagging it in the air temptingly. Bellamy wants to drive himself into her and start pounding but he makes himself wait. He touches her pink labia and clit. He leans forwards to lick her slit, once, twice, and then presses the tip of his tongue against her clit. Clarke moans loudly and more wetness drips onto his tongue. Bellamy leans back and strokes her pussy with his thumb. It’s mesmerizing in the most lustful way, to spread her juices over her vulva and watch it shine in the dim light. “Such a pretty pink pussy,” he mumbles. Clarke waggles her ass again, and Bellamy can tell she’s getting impatient. “Please, Bell,” she moans. “I need it inside me. I need that thick cock to pound me,” she babbles. It’s all the invitation Bellamy needs.
He’s still rock hard, and she’s so wet it’s easy to line himself and push inside her in one hard thrust. “Aa-aah,” Clarke squeaks brokenly. Bellamy leans into her, getting himself as deep as possible. He pushes her hips down so she’s flat against the floor. “You want it rough, princess? You want a good proper fucking?”
“Yessss,” Clarke practically begs. Bellamy starts clapping against her, his hips snapping back and forth and a brutal pace. Clarke wails, a long sound that certainly slips through the tent walls, and buries her face in her arms. Bellamy keeps pounding, admiring her ass bouncing around him. He slaps it and then takes his hand to weave it in her hair, pulling her head out of her arms. The tight drag of her pussy on his cock is so pleasurable it feels white-hot. Combined with the head from earlier, Bellamy’s struggling to last. But he keeps pounding Clarke, almost unable to stop. “So good,” he says through gritted teeth. “Shit, Clarke.” She moans in response.
To give himself a break, Bellamy lets go of Clarke’s hair, pulls out and adjusts Clarke’s hips so she’s up on her knees with her face still on the ground. He gets to his knees and starts pounding her doggy style. Oh, fuck, Bellamy thinks. It feels even fucking better. He refuses to let himself stop before Clarke comes, and he’s not sure he’ll have the stamina to keep going after he comes.
He paces himself, switching his pace to slow and hard. Bellamy rolls his hips into her, pushing deep, and Clarke moans lowly, one of her hands coming out to grab her hair. It takes a few tries to find it, but Bellamy reaches under Clarke’s stomach and rubs her clit in slow circles. He must have hit her g-spot at the same time, because Clarke shouts, a loud cry of Bellamy before her body starts twitching. It’s not even been ten minutes and she’s about to come on his cock. Bellamy just has to make sure he doesn’t finish first. “Come on, pretty girl,” he growls. “I wanna feel you come on my cock, Clarke. I want to fill my girl up with cum.” Clarke lets out a weak moan, still shaking. Bellamy’s balls are so heavy but he resists it, stops himself from busting inside her too soon. “Are you going to come for me, Princess? I want that tight pussy to come on me.” He’s repeating himself, blabbering, but Clarke loves it.
“Oh God, Bell! Fuck! I’m gonna come, Bellamy, I’m gonna fucking come, please fill me up,” Clarke begs nonsensically. Bellamy manages to pump a few more times before Clarke is falling apart around him, arching her back with a loud OH and convulsing. Bellamy comes a second later, his cock twitching inside her, emptying hot white cum deep in her pussy.
“Bellamy,” Clarke pants, reaching back to grab the back of his thigh. “Oh, Bellamy.”
“Clarke,” Bellamy mumbles. He knows he said too much. My girl. Beautiful. He’s crossed the unspoken line they’ve set of what is too personal to say. There are so many emotions churning inside him. Bellamy expects one of them to be exhaustion, but he’s not tired.
Bellamy is still hard inside her. This happens very rarely, and usually when it happens he’s drunk or high or both. He’s not as rock hard as he was before, but he’s hard enough that he can slip in and out of her messy pussy. It’s so drenched with fluids he could probably push in soft.
Bellamy starts moving slowly, watching his cum coat his cock and start dripping out of her. “What are you doing, Bell?” Clarke asks tiredly. “Nothing,” he says without stopping. “Want me to stop?”
“Uhm….” she sighs, putting her head back down in her arms and rocking her hips back slightly. Clarke lets him push gently in and out of her a few more times before she speaks. “Uh-uh,” she dissents. “But we should change positions.”
“Ride me?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke nods. He pulls out and watches her pussy. It’s her second creampie of the day. Selfishly, Bellamy doesn’t grab her a towel. Her pussy looks so good like this, dripping onto the floor of the tent. It’s going to be a pain in the ass to clean up later, but it’s so hot that it’s worth it.
Bellamy lies down and Clarke mounts him sluggishly. She had a pretty big orgasm, so Bellamy expects this round to be slower. She barely has to line him up before he’s sliding inside her. They sigh in unison, Clarke pushing her hips forwards and tilting her head back for the best angle.
“Clarke,” Bellamy says hoarsely. Clarke’s face is flushed and her chest is slightly sunburned. She’s a half-shade darker than when they got to the beach this morning. Sweat shines on her brow and torso, and she puffs her breasts out into his face. Bellamy takes the opportunity to quickly suckle on each nipple before she starts moving. “I love your tits,” he says, and Clarke smiles. “I know you do,” she says teasingly. She starts rocking on him, and Bellamy loves being able to watch her face in this position. That languid, liquid pleasure, her head tilted back and her mouth open, the kind of sex you only get from multiple rounds on long days. Clarke’s eyelashes flutter and Bellamy grabs her waist, rocking her back and forth on his dick. To his surprise, Clarke bats his arms off her and takes control. She braces her hands on the floor and starts slapping her ass against him, her breathing coming in short pants in time with the clapping of her ass.
“Shit,” Bellamy moans. He didn’t think he was going to be able to come again, but Clarke feels impossibly good. He whimpers slightly and Clarke’s mouth curves into a smirk. “You like it when I bounce on your cock?” Fuck. “Yeah I do,” Bellamy breathes back. “I fucking love it.”
She grins. “I love it too,” she pants. “I love having your cock inside me. Did you know that, Bellamy?” Clarke sits all the way down on his cock and thrusts her hips forwards. Bellamy groans and his hips twitch upwards into her of their own accord.
“I might have had an idea,” he says through gritted teeth. Clarke laughs and it turns into a moan. “Oh, Bell,” she moans. She makes eye contact with him, drags her eyes down his body. “You’re so hot,” she pants. “So handsome, so beautiful,” She arches her back on his cock and moans.
Bellamy’s orgasm hits him out of the blue. “God, Clarke!” he shouts. “Shit. Ah. I love you, Clarke.” Bellamy comes, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t see Clarke’s reaction. Thoughts leave his mind as pleasure rolls through his body, and when he comes back down and opens his eyes, Clarke is sitting on him and looking at him with a strange look on her face.
Bellamy doesn’t know what to say. Clarke speaks before he gets a chance. “Did you mean that?” she says slowly. “You love me?”
Bellamy flushes and fumbles, stuttering and mumbling. He is not smooth when it comes to matters of love. “It just slipped out,” he tries, and then immediately curses himself. Why? Don’t fuck this up.
Fortunately, Clarke knows how to see through his bullshit by now. She doesn’t even address his comment, just repeats herself. “You love me?”
Bellamy has loved her since the first time he laid eyes on her. Or maybe since the first time he slipped inside her. Or maybe he hadn’t loved her until right this moment. Loving Clarke has no timeline. It feels infinitely old and new at the same time. “Yeah, I do,” he summarizes. “I love you and…” Say it. “And I want more than this.” Clarke is silent for one terrifying moment.
“Okay,” she says.
“‘Okay’?” Bellamy asks, tightening his grip on her hips.
“Yeah. Okay. I…love you too. In more than one way. And I think I could love you even more.” Clarke looks down at him, considering him. “Let’s do this.” It seems entirely too simple, too easy to enter the best version of his life with just a few words.
“Yeah? What now?” Bellamy asks. His heart feels so strange. Ecstatic, but also delicate, like Clarke is holding it in her bare hands. He prays she doesn’t break it.
Clarke leans down and kisses him. Bellamy wraps his arms around her and leans into it, pressing gentle kisses to her lips. “I guess most of it stays the same,” Clarke says. “Except you’re mine now.” She smiles, wide and bright, and Bellamy’s in awe of this woman, of her beauty and wisdom. “You’re incredible,” he says, unable to put the feeling into words. “I love you.” He says it because he can.
-
Clarke ends up being right. Most things stay the same. They spend the rest of the day at the beach in a honeymoon haze, and when the sun disappears behind the horizon, Bellamy builds a fire in his hole. He wraps his arms around Clarke as they watch the fire and thinks, This is the start of the rest of my life.
Clarke moves into Bellamy’s room and they get a new bed. Clarke’s room becomes a studio and study, which turns into a guest room when Octavia or Clarke’s friends stay over. They change their Facebook statuses and some of the pictures on the wall. None of either of their friends are remotely surprised at the change in their relationship.
Two weeks after Bellamy officially becomes Clarke’s boyfriend, he buys an engagement ring and hides the blue box at the back of his underwear drawer. When they’re ready - when Clarke is a little older than twenty-six - he’ll pop the question.
When Clarke is twenty-seven, she finds the ring. Whenever he asks, she knows she’ll say yes. They have that day at the beach to thank for that.