i guess that's love
i can't pretend
it starts with his hand around your throat and your knife at his.
there's something electric, ecstatic, about this boy, like a powder keg— you can feel his eyes smoldering on your breasts as you shove him, on your hips as he grabs you by the wrist, on the curve of your ass as you stalk away. that fucking bastard cut the radio from your pod and left you there to bleed, he let three hundred innocents die for his sick pride, he says that he should have killed you when he had the chance—
but then you see him drape a blanket over his sister's shoulders with obvious fondness, then the only person you ever loved leaves you for a heavy-voiced, self-righteous stranger, then somehow bellamy is in your tent, complimenting you, calling you smart, calling you necessary— not the hanger-on you always were to your mother, to abby, even to finn. you built a bomb out of a tin can, he says, unable to mask his admiration. what else can you do?
(the day you begin noticing the naked desperation in his features, when he's not distracted by a constant frenzy of attackfuckplankillkeepeveryonealivegoddammit, is the day that you a. realize he cares about his own hide least of all and b. realize you've got it bad.)
you don't love bellamy. you don't even particularly like him. but when finn watches clarke with such profound longing you want to vomit, when the disgust in your marrow reaches critical mass, he is the one person you think is enough to wipe your mind clean.
(this won't be nice, the way it was with finn, fumbling palms and soft touches. that's okay, really. you don't barrel into bellamy's tent expecting nice.)
you're mistaking me for someone who cares, he taunts after you spill your pain, loath to display vulnerability. the great bellamy blake would never waste a valuable minute on relationship drama when he fucks a new girl every night. time to get over it.
take off your clothes, you go ahead and demand, because you know he won't refuse.
he stares at you— almost mocking, almost hesitant. you remove your shirt, untie your hair, and you stare back fearlessly, defiantly.
(it's stifling in here. there's a mad energy running through your spine.)
his gaze flickers to your chest, snaps upwards. i won't try to stop you, talk you down, he says— a smirk playing on his lips, a note of warning in his voice.
good. you thrust your tongue past his teeth before you can stop yourself.
the great bellamy blake surrenders to your kiss.
• i'm going to make you forget his name, he drawls, rasping his calluses over your nipples— you'd mock his colossal ego if you weren't busy suckling the side of his neck. and then his hands burn like fire on your skin, expunging every trace of finn in their wake, and your only thoughts are faster, harder, godthereyesyesyesdon'tyoudarestop—
you moan for this boy when he strokes between your legs, low and gutteral. later, you come for him, too.
• you're very pretty, he exhales when you're curled up together, tracing your vertebrae. you're half-asleep, fever all sweated out. he smells like salt and gunpowder. i'm glad you're here, he whispers, and you know that he's not referring to what's inside your synapses— that you're not just another conquest to him.
his words are dangerous, an intoxicating siren song. you can't let yourself get so attached.
your saliva is tar in your mouth, hot and sticky, as you leave. your eyes burn— from the smokehouse, from the smokehouse.
he thinks with his heart and not his head. you hate that you aren't the same way.
bellamy has young, violent death scrawled all over the set of his face, the arrogant jut of his chin— because death is the only thing he has to offer you, thrust prostrate at your feet. i am not afraid, he says with every jerk of his rifle, every too-long look at you and octavia, wearing his bravado like a crown. I AM NOT AFRAID I AM NOT AFRAID I AM NOT AFRAID—
(you know that he will throw himself in front of a spear for you, someday.)
(you wish he could live for you, instead. you wish a lot of things, desperate on your knees, but especially this.)